Best Served Cold
by Jadea
Summary: There are some spells that need to be mastered before the end. And one other thing ...
1. Beginnings

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: Absolutely none of the Harry Potter characters belong to me. Not mine. Nicht meine. Ot-nay, ine-may. The "A Deal With the Devil" universe *does* belong to me.   
  


Rating: R. Most *definitely* an R.   
  


Notes: There will be at least one violent chapter; the rest of the rating comes from swearing (hello, there is a lot of Ron in this fic) and sex, specifically Harry/Ron with references to forced Draco/Ron. 

This is a part of the "A Deal With the Devil" universe, which extends in this order: "A Deal With the Devil," "Interlude," "Playing With Fire" and "Two Weeks Later." All are rated R. If you have not read those fics, I strongly reccomend you do so, especially if you want to get the full effect of this one.   
  


Dedication: The whole sequal: To Rose. I never imagined such support when I came into the Fiction world in August; she's been incredible. 

This chapter: To MamaLaz, whose praise means a great deal to me. And whose Draco/Ron I adore.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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___________________________________________________________________________   
  


Dear Sirius,   
  


The next Hogsmeade weekend is in two weeks. I need you to meet Ron and I at the Shrieking Shack on Saturday, November 28th. Please. This is very important.   
  


Harry   
  


Postscript: Don't mention this to anyone. Not even Professor Dumbeldore. Or Professor Lupin. Or Hermoine.   
  


_________________________________________________________________________   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Soft white feathers tickled his skin, raising the hairs on his arm. Hedwig clutched the short missive in her talons and, with a farewell cry, launched herself into the dusk.   
  
  
  


So. It was done.   
  


It had been...over a month now. Fourty-seven days, to be exact. Almost two months, then.   
  


His hands gripped the stone sill of the window; fingers pressing into the dust and grime on the worn granite. Watching until Hedwig dissapeared completely, a speck of white that was swallowed by the darkening sky.   
  


Two months. Almost.   
  


The weather was bitter now; gray skies hid the sun. Like a slap in the face the cold had descended very soon after... 'it'...forcing the students to stay inside and listen to the wind as it howled outside the stone walls of Hogwarts. The Indian Summer that had given them such beautiful evenings had been a mirage; everyone was saying this was going to be the worst winter in decades...maybe in centuries.   
  


Wearing only his normal robes, standing in front of the open window, Harry shivered abruptly, feeling the gooseflesh sweep through his body.   
  


He hated the cold. He hated *being* cold.   
  


Now more then ever.   
  


Still, he stood at the window, teeth clenched tightly, as the cold wind skimmed over his skin with sharp fingers, slipping under his robes, freezing him to the bone. He hated being cold. He truly did.   
  


But it had to be done.   
  


He had been caught once, unprepared, for the cold. Not this time. Not the next time.   
  


Two months. Almost.   
  


The world outside hung, suspended, between day and night. Thick clouds covered the sky; if the stars had come out, he couldn't tell. The grounds were deserted. There was no one ouside...not on an evening like this.   
  


A particularly harsh gust of wind ripped through the skelatal branches of the Forbidden Forest; he could see whitecaps on the lake.   
  


A low pulse throbbed at the base of his neck. Unless the tension eased soon, he was going to have a splitting headache well before he went to sleep. If he went to sleep.   
  


If Ron *could* sleep.   
  


Unconsciously, his fingers began to curl into fists.   
  


Before...before 'it' Ron had never had trouble sleeping, so far as Harry knew. There had been no nightmares, no pained, stifled cries in the night, no tears silently wetting the front of Harry's pajamas.   
  


Now--Ron rarely slept the whole night through without at least one bad dream. And not alone. Never alone. The two hadn't slept in separate beds since...well, since 'It'   
  


Deliberately, he unclenched his fists, rubbing his forhead with one tired hand.   
  


He felt exhausted, strung out. All he wanted was to go back to the Common Room and find Ron. To have the other boy fall asleep in his arms, so that he could ward away each others bad dreams. For both of them to have a decent nights sleep, for the first time in months.   
  


Well, fourty-seven days, to be exact.   
  


Still, he stood by the window, feeling the cold seep into his bones.   
  


He didn't know exactly where Sirius was, but he knew his Godfather would be able to meet them in a fortnight. He had to.   
  


Nothing would work without Sirius.   
  


He shivered abruptly, eyes watering with the sting of the wind.   
  


He didn't want to put Sirius in danger. He truly didn't want to.   
  


But...he *needed* Sirius. And he knew that Sirius would help him. He knew it.   
  


But...   
  


A small, reufel smile tugged at Harry's lips, he ran a hand through his dark hair and was not at all suprised when he realized it was chilled, small beads of icy moisture clinging to the strands.   
  


Ron didn't know about the letter.   
  


Freezing cold fingers reached up to rub his stinging eyes. He needed to go down soon. It was getting late, and Ron would wonder why it was taking him so long to go to the library. He had left the other boy in the Common room, surrounded by Gryffindors, playing chess with Hermione. Safe. 

Ron didn't know about the letter. Or meeting Sirius.   
  


Eyes closed, he cupped his forhead in one hand, gently rubbing the skin around his scar.   
  


God, he was tired.   
  


Sleep. Sleep sounded nice; sounded more then nice. Last night neither he nor Ron had gotten almost any rest at all. Not so much because of the nightmares, although that was part of it. . .   
  
  
  


_____________________________________________   
  
  
  


"No."   
  


Frustrated, Harry raked his fingers through his already messy dark hair, making it stand up in peculiar clumps. Ron's hair was also messy and longer then usual; the boy hadn't cut it for weeks.   
  


"How can you say that, Ron? It's been...almost...two months now. And we haven't done anything."   
  


Red-gold strands of hair hid Ron's blue eyes from his own green ones; the other boy was very deliberately not looking at him, examining the pattern of the quilt beneath him instead.   
  


"I don't want anyone to know, Harry. You *know* that."   
  


Exasperation and weariness warring in that voice; this was neither the first--nor, Harry suspected, would it be the last--time they had had this discussion. Frustration bordering on anger, Ron's emotions had always been hair trigger, and they had been worse then ever before in the last few weeks.   
  


But there was something else in that voice. An undertone of pain that hadn't been there before this fall, that seemed completely alien in his best friend's voice.   
  


He wanted--desperately--to go over to Ron, to take him in his arms. Smooth his hands through the other boys red hair, kiss the pain in that voice away. But Ron didn't want that. Not right now. It was in the set of the other boys shoulders, the way his fingers combed restlessly through the threads of the quilt. The way he refused to meet Harry's eyes. All signs to Harry that being touched was just about the last thing in the world the red headed boy wanted right now.   
  


"Ron, I know that. I do. But...what else are we going to do?"   
  


If anything, the tension in those shoulders increased. God, he wanted to go over there.   
  
  
  


The other boy's fingers had seized a stray thread and were wrapping it around his thumb, Harry could practically feel the cord cutting into the other boy's skin.   
  


"Didn't your Mother ever tell you not to do that?"   
  


A quick shrug and the fingers released the thread, still, the other boy avoided his eyes. No wonder Ron had been letting his hair grow longer, recently. It provided an impenatrable shield to anyone who wanted to see his blue eyes.   
  


"Ron--"   
  


"I told you, Harry. I don't want to tell anyone. Not Dumbeldore, not McGonnagal, not even Hermoine. *No one*"   
  


His own fingers had stopped clutching his dark hair and were instead gripping the post of the nearest bed--Neville's--tightly.   
  


"Then what *do* you want?"   
  


Moments passed, the only sounds those of the winter wind outside and the muted hum of conversation from the Gryffindor Common Room. That, and their breathing.   
  


Never again was Harry ever going to take breathing for granted.   
  


The soft sound of breath filled the room and fogged the windows. Seamus, Dean, and Neville were all downstairs...reasonably so, as it was only eight o clock. But he and Ron had been spending far more time alone together--upstairs--then even before, and people were starting to ask questions.   
  


//Harry? Is there some--is there something you'd like to tell me? About you and Ron?//   
  


A harsh gust of wind shook the window slightly, rattling in its frame. Harry jumped but Ron didn't even flinch, tracing the quilt pattern with the tips of his fingers.   
  


"I hate him."   
  


A whisper, barely audible over the howl of the wind. The hands on the quilt paused, settling over the pattern of a blue star.   
  


"I hate him, Harry. He...he hurt me. And you. I *hate* him. I--"   
  


Abruptly, the voice broke off and Ron's right hand clutched, tight, at the quilt.   
  


//I'll get you, Malfoy. I swear. I'll get you...//   
  
  
  


A slow shiver seemed to be working its way up the other boys back; Harry watched as Ron twisted away, more strands of hair falling down his forehead, obscuring his eyes behind a thick, red-gold curtain.   
  


"I hate him, Harry. So much. So very much. But...I--I don't know what to do--"   
  


Involuntarily, his hands moved, motioning towards Ron. God, he wanted to go over there. And he knew that Ron needed him over there. Needed him, but didn't *want* him. Knew that the other boy would only tense under his fingers, turn his face away if Harry sought his lips.   
  


Each night found them in each others arms, neither one could sleep a minute otherwise. And sometimes, during the night when neither of them slept, they had done things...at first, for comfort, then for pleasure. Sometimes during the day, when they were alone. Sweet, stolen moments. Kisses and touches that grew gradually in intensity...but there was always some barrier, some limit that neither boy acknowledged or passed. A limit known to both of them when muscles began to tense, when Ron began to turn his face away from open mouthed kisses.   
  


If it wasn't Ron who slipped into his bed every night, and Ron who almost always began their moments with hot, demanding kisses and subtle movements, Harry would have stopped. But any mention of taking advantage or stopping their actions brought vehement protests from Ron and, if Harry persisted, the full brunt of a raging Weasley temper. Not that Harry wanted to stop. Everything they did felt wonderful.   
  


But he didn't want to hurt Ron.   
  


His hand clenched tighter around the bed post, forcing himself to keep his distance from the other boy, no matter how badly he wanted to go over there.   
  


"Do you want to kill him? Do you want me to?"   
  


The words tumbled from his mouth before he was even aware he had thought them. Perhaps he hadn't thought them. He didn't think about breathing, after all. Not ususally. Perhaps those words were just as much a part of him as breathing, now.   
  


Incredulous blue eyes met his, the depth of Ron's shock reflecting in in his eyes.   
  


"Harry--"   
  


The word came out in a startled breath and seemed to take all the energy out of the other boy; his lips parted slightly as his eyes searched Harry's face.   
  


Wrenching his hand free of the bedpost he strode across the room in three giant steps, kneeling before the other boy so that his head was level with Ron's chin, his green eyes searching Ron's blue ones.   
  
  
  


"I will kill him, if you want me to. I swear."   
  


Tentatively, Ron reached out and slipped both his hands into Harry's dark locks, tugging the other boy up towards him until they were face to face.   
  


"I don't want him dead if it means that I lose you, too. I'd rather do anything...*anything* then that."   
  


The words sent soft whispers of breath against his lips even as they sent shivers down his spine. Ron's hands were rough from years of chores and quidditch, framing his face, but they were holding it so gently...   
  


Slowly, he closed the distance between them, pressing his mouth against Ron's. The tension he had observed earlier was gone, now; the other boy pressed against him, pulling Harry closer and closer, opening his mouth under soft pressure of Harry's tongue.   
  


How much time passed, Harry wasn't sure. It couldn't have been too long, none of the other boys had come up to the room, and Neville always went to bed insanely early. All he knew was that sometime later they found themselves entertwined on Ron's bed, still fully clothed, if a bit rumpled looking.   
  


Slowly, he traced a pattern of freckles sprinkled across his best friend's cheek while resting his own cheek on Ron's chest, just below the other boys neck. Listening to the soft, steady beat of the other boys heart.   
  


"I don't know what I want."   
  


The words were whispered, reluctantly, into his hair. Words Harry knew Ron would never have been able to say to anyone else, wrenched from his mouth as they were.   
  


"I...I don't have any fucking clue, Harry. I--I never really hated anyone before. Not like this. I just. Don't. Know. I hate him, so much, I want him *dead* but I don't know how and he's here, he's *at* Hogwarts, and every time I see him...God, every time I see him I just want to make him pay and I hate him so fucking much...."   
  


Slowly, gently, he ran his fingers up the other boys arm, smoothing over the worn material, feeling the hard muscle and skin underneath. Listening to the beat of the other boys heart, the litany that was ripping up his own.   
  


Ron...this wasn't Ron. This boy with venom dripping from his lips, hatred in his heart. What Malfoy had done had left more then simply physical scars; he had also wrenched something incredibly precious away from his best friend. Something Harry had never had to lose. Childhood, perhaps. Innocence.   
  


But he loved this boy. The one from before and the one after, more then anything else in the entire world. More then life itself. Loved him fiercely.   
  


And love meant protecting those in your heart, even if it cost you everything.   
  


His mother had taught him that.   
  


Malfoy had stolen something from his best friend; something he would never be able to replace. But that didn't mean Ron had to lose more of himself in order to get revenge.   
  


"Let me think, Ron. For a while. I promise I won't do anything without you. Let me do it."   
  


A soft sigh was the only hint of protest; it was instantly followed by warm acceptance, a soft kiss on his forehead, lingering on the skin of his scar.   
  
  
  


_______________________________________________________________   
  
  
  
  
  


Struggling against the wind, Harry slammed the window shut with a harsh scraping sound, wincing as the noise grated against his ears.   
  


He hadn't told Ron about the letter. He would have to, but he couldn't bear to, tonight.   
  


Later, perhaps.   
  


It was time to go back to Gryffindor Tower.   
  



	2. Discoveries

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: See Chapter 1. (Which, if you're reading this, you presumably have.)   
  


Summary: Harry's owl-mailed Sirius, but he hasn't told Ron. Meanwhile, Hermoine is asking questions. And just because you're plotting someone's death doesn't mean you can avoid Potions class with them.   
  
  
  
  
  


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"And so you see, when you place the newt eyes in the potion too early, the elixer will not work properly, unless your intent is to have your cauldron spontaneously combust, as Mr. Longbottom so ably showed us."   
  


Nasty laughter echoed off the stone walls of Professor Snape's dungeon; Neville stared miserably at the remains of his cauldron.   
  


God. He was such a bastard.   
  


Snape, not Neville. 

Someone was clucking their tongue aganist the roof of their mouth, he could hear it right next to his left ear and he didn't have to look over to tell it was Hermoine, gazing at Neville with a look of soft pity on her face.   
  


Poor Neville. Wasn't that how it went?   
  


Neville exploded another cauldron again today. 

Poor Neville. 

Neville fell of his broom in flying last week. 

Poor Neville. 

Neville got a howler from his grandmother the other day. 

Poor Neville. 

Malfoy tripped Neville into a suit of armor at lunch. 

Malfoy....   
  


He clenched his hands into fists, feeling cold, icy fingers skim their way up his back. He closed his eyes, hoping Harry and Hermoine wouldn't notice his sudden shudder.   
  


Amazing, how just one word--just a name, just a fucking *name* no less--could do that to him.   
  


Harry hadn't noticed; the green eyed boy wasn't looking at him, his gaze was fixed on some other point in the room. Eyes hard and cold, and Ron had a damn good idea what it was--or rather, *who* it was--Harry was glaring at.   
  


Hermoine, on the other hand, was no longer concentrating on 'Poor Neville' and she *had* noticed his slight shudder; her arm was pressed against his as the three of them clustered around their bubbling cauldron.   
  


Warm brown eyes flickered up, searching for his own blue ones but he ignored them, hiding beneath the strands of red hair that obscured his eyes from Hermoine's searching gaze. Those familiar brown eyes had questions in them; questions he didn't want to answer. *Ever.* Better to see the frustration and curiosity and yes, even anger that had been in those eyes recently then to see them look at him the way they had looked at Neville.   
  


Better anger then pity.   
  


Slowly, he released a breath when he felt the weight of her gaze fall away, and all of Hermoine's tremendous focus fell on their potion.   
  


"All right. I think *now* is the time to add our newt eyes; hopefully our cauldron won't combust like Neville's did. Harry, did you slice up the newt eyes? Harry?"   
  


With a jerk, The Boy Who Lived tore his gaze away from the other side of the room, belatedly realizing Hermoine was addressing him.   
  


"Err--what was that, Hermione?"   
  


Fingers drummed restlessly against the nearby table; Hermoine glared at Harry.   
  


"The. Newt. Eyes. Harry. We have to add them now. Honestly, I don't know what's gotten into you two recently. You can't seem to pay attention in any of your classes, and you're both at your absolute *worst* in Potions."   
  


Frustration threaded through all Hermoine's words; her temper and volume rising with each syllable. If they hadn't been in the middle of a class, Ron suspected she'd be yelling at the top of her lungs.   
  


As it was, she choked back her yells with a considerable effort; the words that issued from her mouth were soft, traced with more then a bit of desparation. Even as the words slipped out of her mouth, he knew she thought they were only echoing in her mind:   
  


"I know somethings wrong. I *know* it. Why won't you tell me? I thought you trusted me..."   
  


The pain in those words tugged at his heart and he turned away, not wanting to see the wounded expression in Hermoine's eyes. She was right. They had been keeping secrets from her, something they'd never done before, and it was hurting her.   
  


*They* were hurting her.   
  


Because of it.   
  


Because of *him*   
  


Another reason to hate Malfoy.   
  


//I hate you, Malfoy. Hate you. Hateyouhateyouhateyouhateyouhateyouhateyouhateyou--//   
  


"Ron!"   
  


A hand was on his shoulder, gripping his robes and pulling him back roughly. The unanticipated touch shocked him and her whirled, jerking violently out of Hermoine's hands.   
  


"Ron! What on *earth* do you think you're doing? You almost burned yourself on the edge of the cauldron...Ron? What is it? What's wrong? Did you burn yourself?"   
  


Breathe. He couldn't breathe.   
  


God. He was so fucking pathetic.   
  


//It was Hermoine. Just Hermione. Not...anything else. It's Ok. It's Ok.//   
  


Hermoine's eyes were boring into his, now; her face tilted up, searching his. Not even his longer hair could protect him from her probing gaze and so he closed his eyes, leaning back against the cold stone wall of the dungeons and forcing himself to control his breathing. In. Out. It was Ok. It was just Hermoine.   
  


Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the weight of Hermoine's eyes, demanding answers. He bit back a groan. Maybe he could just get through the rest of Potions with his eyes shut.   
  


Then there was something else, something blocking him from Hermoine's penetrating gaze. Something--no, someone--that, even with his eyes closed, he could identify instantly.   
  


A smell tugged at his senses; he knew Harry's scent well. Very well. It had been on his clothes and his sheets more times then he could remember, mingling with his own. Although he wasn't really sure where his scent ended and Harry's began, anymore.   
  


This time, even with his eyes closed, he didn't flinch when the hands grasped his arm. He knew that scent, he knew that touch...he knew that *presence* 

Fingers trailed gently up the sensitive skin of his inner arm, shoving the worn sleeve of his robes up over his elbow. The awareness of Hermoine's gaze had been replaced with the awareness of Harry's. He wanted--wanted badly--to keep his eyes closed and focus entirely on the hand that was tracing indecipherable patterns on his arm.   
  


But...   
  


"Ron? Did you burn yourself?"   
  


Reluctantly he opened his eyes, blinking at the strands of hair flung across his eyes. Silently, he shook his head, sending more red-gold strands flying. Maybe it was time for him to finally get a haircut.   
  


Worried green eyes, almost level with his own blue ones, stared at him solemnly. Warm fingers still held his arm just below the elbow. Harry was standing close--very close. His own hands had moved, his right hand gripping Harry's wrist softly. Those green eyes were only inches away...he could see little flecks of blue in them...   
  


"Am I...interrupting something...you two?"   
  


If Harry's wrist had been an eight-legged arachnid, he couldn't have let go of it any faster. Anger and embarrasment flooded through him; he felt a flush of heat in his face and knew he looked like his head was on fire.   
  


Harry, of course, acted with complete poise. The lousy git simply released his elbow, tugged the sleeve as far down on Ron's wrist as it would go--which was only about halfway--and stepped away, facing Professor Snape with a cool, disinterested expression on his face.   
  


"I was checking Ron's arm to see if it was burned. Professor."   
  


Limp strands of greasy dark hair dangled in front of their Potion Master's dark eyes; his face was as inscrutable as ever.   
  


"Of course you were. Now, if I can interrupt your little...examination...of each other, *please* attend to the corner of the room where some of your classmates are actually brewing a *potion* Which, I do believe, is the purpose of this class. Although I suppose the Boy Who Lived and his faithful friends are *above* that sort of thing."   
  


The flush of embarrasment began to dissipate, but his temper began to rise again. Fucking Snape. Did he take asshole lessons? Or was he just *naturally* that much of a bastard? And why the fuck was he always so hateful to Harry?   
  


Fury flashed through Harry's eyes, but Snape had already turned, gesturing towards the corner of the dungeon, where the rest of the class stood, grouped together around a few students.   
  
  
  


Glaring at the back of Snape's greasy head Ron reluctantly followed Harry towards the other side of the dungeons, Hermoine walking almost thoughtfully behind him.   
  


Dean Thomas was the only Gryffindor taller then Ron and somehow, he wound up staring at the back of Dean's head, who turned and winked at Ron when he saw the other boy's scowl. His own height normally allowed him to remain in the back of the group; Hermoine simply lowered her shoulders and pushed through the group of students in front of her like an offensive lineman in American Football. Even gathered around the cauldron, the group remained segregated; Gryffindor and Slytherin, with the latter lined up against the other wall.Thankfully, because the group had already been formed by the time they got there, the only person next to him was Harry. He didn't like being surrounded, even if it was only by a bunch of fellow Gryffindors. He wasn't pinned in, trapped by a bunch of people, and even if he couldn't see what ever the hell it was Snape wanted them to see, he didn't care.   
  


The cluster of bodies moved, some people shifting feet, sighing, whispering, yawning. Snape was saying something in his "I-am-the-Potions-God" voice that Ron couldn't and didn't particularly want to hear. In front of him Dean yawned and Seamus stood up on his tiptoes to whisper something in the taller boys ear that made both of them grin. Hermoine was at the front of the group, bouncing up and down on her feet, taking notes. Pavrati was idly playing with a plait of Lavender's hair, Blaize Zabini was picking his nose...   
  


The whisper of cloth and the feel of warm fingers grasping his own startled him out of his boredom-induced-observations. Harry was holding his hand. In class. True, the sleeves of their robes--well, of *Harry's* robes, anyway--pretty much covered up their whole hand anyway, and they were at the back of the group, so no one could see, but they were actually *holding hands in class*...and wasn't there a punishment for public displays of affection? Didn't you lose fifteen house points?   
  


Harry's hand felt good. Warm. A flush began to spread through his cheeks; he unsuccesfully fought it down, feigning casualness even as one of Harry's fingers began to rub the skin on the knuckle of his right index finger. Prat. He must *know* that tickled, a quick glance at his best friend out of the corner of his eye showed a mischevous glint in those jade green eyes.   
  


If there had ever been any hope of him paying the slightest bit of attention to whatever it was Snape was saying, that had been dashed when Harry had taken his hand. The entire Potions class narrowed to one point, one focus. Stupid, probably, to get so flushed and tingly over something as small as holding hands, considering some of the things they'd already done--   
  


Considering some of the things that had been done to him...   
  


Unconsciously, his own fingers squeezed tight around the other boy's hand. Warm. No deathly spell to freeze Harry's blood this time; he could feel the beat of the other boy's pulse against his own. 

He tugged slightly on Harry's hand, deliberately pulling the shorter boy closer to him. Standing hip to hip, now. In the middle of Potions class, no less. The dungeons were usually almost unbearably cold, especially in the late autumn, but he could have sworn they were hotter today...   
  


". . .Mr. Potter."   
  


Ron jerked; the warm fingers slipped out of his almost instantly.   
  


//Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Don't tell me we got caught, please, maybe we can say I was just checking his pulse...//   
  


Snape's soft voice cut through the haze of his thoughts. Soft, but commanding.   
  


"I believe, Mr. Potter, that you were not paying attention."   
  


Thank Merlin. He hadn't seen.   
  


Harry simply stood, cool and composed. Somehow, his hands were now both tucked into the pockets of his robes. Casual.   
  


"I do not appreciate being forced to repeat myself in my own class. Perhaps taking fifteen points from Gryffindor will lengthen your abysmal attention span."   
  


The Slytherins lined up on the oppositte wall were all sniggering appreciatively; the Gryffindor's either glaring at Snape or sneaking commiserating glances at Harry. Instinctively, Ron's eyes flashed over to Hermione, anticipating the look of affectionate frustration on her face as Harry lost Gryffindor yet more points...   
  


But the furrowed brow, pursed lips and tilted head that he had *known* he would see weren't there. Hermione wasn't wearing her "I-know-Professor-Snape-is-a-biased-git-but-he's-still-a-teacher and-you-should-have-been-paying-attention" look at all.   
  


Color flamed in her cheeks, several strands of curly brown hair had escaped from behind her ear, brushing her face. She ignored them, one hand gripping her robes tightly, the fingers of her other hand barely holding her scroll off the ground.   
  


But it was her eyes...   
  


Wide. Stunned. Lost. Hermione never looked that way in class. That was the way *he* looked in class.   
  


"Mr. Potter. As lecture seems to be beneath you, perhaps only active participation can truly capture your attention. Come here. I believe Mr. Malfoy needs to test his potion."   
  


Harry's dark green eyes narrowed, a cold, hard look settling on his features. His jaw clenched, and then the other boy opened his mouth--but found his words cut off by a voice that managed to send shivers up Ron's spine even as they made his fists clench.   
  


"Unless, of course, Potter is too scared to try a potion that wasn't brewed by Granger."   
  


//Hate you, Malfoy.//   
  


The ice-cold, imperious tone. The gloating fairly dripping from the voice. The obvious contempt and disdain.   
  


//Hate you. Hate you. Hate you.//   
  


The pain the sound of that voice always brought.   
  


Deliberately, Harry brushed the dark tangle of bangs out of his eyes, adjusted his glasses, and moved away from Ron. The other Gryffindors parted in front of him, muttering amongst themselves, clearing a path as Harry walked slowly to where Snape stood.   
  


With *him*   
  


//Hate you.//   
  


Lounging near a tall black cauldron, cold gray eyes trained on Harry.   
  


Malfoy.   
  


A small smirk was tugging at the corners of that sharp mouth.   
  


That mouth.   
  


//Teeth, biting the skin of his neck, drawing blood.//   
  


His heart thundered in his ears, breath heavy and harsh.   
  


He hadn't--Harry hadn't--neither of them--   
  


Neither of them had said a word to Malfoy in fourty-eight days.   
  


//Do you want to kill him? Do you want me to?//   
  


The candelabras on the walls cast flickering shadows throughout the dungeons. The flames caught the glossy dark strands of Harry's hair, shining darkly even in the dim light. Highlighting narrow green eyes that were surveying cold gray ones.   
  


"Don't worry about me, *Malfoy.* I can handle anything you cast at me."   
  
  
  


A pale hand reached up, brushing a strand of silvery blonde hair out of Malfoy's shadowed face.   
  


"Good to hear it, Potter. Maybe you're not completely helpless after all."   
  


No one else would have noticed the difference, Ron knew. Probably not even Hermione. No one else would see the ice seeping into Harry's green eyes, the way the flush of anger had dissipated. 

The dangerous way he held himself, staring at Malfoy. Harry wasn't simply mad, or even furious.   
  


//Do you want me to kill him?//   
  


"Mr. Malfoy. If you would. We need to determine the properties of your potion. If it isn't done correctly, I'm afraid Mr. Potter will be in for a rather uncomfortable night. *That* would certainly be a pity."   
  


Cold gray eyes flickered over to glance at Snape before settling on Harry.   
  


//You heard me, Weasley. Potter's dying.//   
  


The Slytherins were whispering again, hissing comments to each other.   
  


Slowly, Malfoy ladled a small amount of his bubbling potion into a small crystal phial, holding the container with the tips of his fingers.   
  


//Hard, rough fingers, unlacing the front of his quidditch robes.//   
  


Green eyes still boring into Malfoy's, Harry reached out and snatched the phial, not even deigning to touch the Slytherin's hand.   
  


"Bottoms up, Potter."   
  


Without any hesitation Harry tilted his head back, dark hair falling away from his face, and drained the phial dry. For a moment, his entire body...clenched. Shoulders, back, legs: all went rigid and unmoving. A collective gasp went through the Gryffindors and not a small amount of chuckling through the Slytherins.   
  


Then Harry grimaced, mouth working as if he had just tasted something incredibly foul. His body relaxing by degrees, his best friend wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before slamming the phial on the small wooden table Malfoy had used to slice his newt eyes on. The ice had not completely seeped out of Harry's eyes; but they stared at Malfoy without blinking.   
  


"Is that the best you can do, Malfoy?"   
  


A low whoop went up from someone in front of him. Dean. Seamus, maybe. A few chuckles, nothing else. Any cause for celebration would doubtless lose them more points.   
  


"Excellent job, Mr. Malfoy. Ten points to Slytherin."   
  


Ron didn't even know if Malfoy heard Snape's words. Those sharp, elegant fingers twitched, fingering the hems of Malfoy's dark green robes.   
  


"Now. Mr. Potter, if you could apply the lessons you have learned from Mr. Malfoy and return to your own work..."   
  


For some inexplicable reason, this struck Harry as funny; a soft chuckle slipped out of his best friend's mouth as he worked his way back towards Ron.   
  


The crowd dispersed, groups moving back to their cauldrons, muttering to themselves until they were dismissed only minutes later.   
  


Strangely, no one spoke as he, Harry and Hermione trudged up the stairs to Gryffindor tower. Ron, with his longer legs, led the way, Harry and Hermione trailing after him in silence. Until he gave the password-- "goldensnidget" -- and stepped into the Common Room, no one said a word.   
  


The instant the Portrait swung closed, however, Hermione rounded on both of them, brushing curls out of her eyes roughly. Her cheeks were flushed and she was clutching her books to her chest. Her mouth fell open and lips trembled--were those *tears* in her eyes?   
  


Hurt and anger caused her voice to shake.   
  


"How...how could you not tell me? I can't believe you didn't--how could you not tell me?"   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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I've found that Ron's POV's come easier to me then Harry's, so I'm considering switching back and forth between the two with the sequal. Oh, and maybe throwing a little Draco in occassionally for flavor. Oh, tell me what you think. Feed back makes me happy : )   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Confrontations

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: See Chapter 1   
  


Summary: Hermione's got questions; Ron and Harry have half-truths.   
  


Dedication: Chapter: To Quoth the Raven, who has written one of the most gut-wrenching fics on FF.net It's called "Giving Notice," and once you read it, you'll never forget it. 

Story: To Rose, whose reviews always make me smile.   
  
  
  


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"Her--Hermione?"   
  


He could see the wetness glistening in her eyes; she blinked fiercely, trying to stop the small tears from escaping.   
  


Guilt began to bloom across his chest, harsh and hot. It had been there for weeks, an uncomfortable, nagging sensation in the back of his mind he had been unable to confront or stamp out, and so he had ignored it. The sight of Hermione's tears, however, brought the sensation back full force.   
  


//How could you not tell me?//   
  


Ron was gaping at her, blue eyes wide, either not comprehending--or just not *wanting* to comprehend--what it was that had made Hermione so furious.   
  


Her entire body shook, arms clutching her three heavy books in a death-grip. Wet eyes revealing a thousand conflicting emotions . . . anger, sadness, shock, fury.   
  


"Hermione--"   
  


The look in her eyes cut the words off before they could pass his lips. She was fighting it--he would have expected no less from Hermione--but she couldn't stop the emotion flickering across her face any more then she could the tears escaping her eyes.   
  


Rejection.   
  


The dull ache, the flush of shame that only that particular vile emotion could produce. A feeling he knew well, thanks to the Dursleys.'   
  


//How did she find out?//   
  


"What the *hell* is going on?"   
  


Ron was raking his left hand through his already messy red-gold hair, vainly trying to tuck it behind his ears. Blue eyes jumping back and forth between him and Hermione, eyes wide and worried. Without another glance, he tossed his potions books on the floor at his feet, eyebrows arching in a silent query even as Hermione responded in a cold tone.   
  


"That is precisely what *I* would like to know."   
  


Ron was now staring at Hermione as if she was going to sprout another head any moment. Which, at Hogwarts, was entirely possible.   
  


"Is this about Potions? I didn't burn mysel--"   
  


For the first time in his life, Harry saw Hermione Granger, Prefect, show total disregard for a textbook. Several of them actually, as she flung the three heavy tomes at her feet and stepped closer to Ron, eyes blazing.   
  


"Why. Didn't. You. Tell. Me?"   
  


"Hermione."   
  


Brown eyes flickered away from Ron, staring challengingly into his own green ones.   
  


"I--I'm sorry."   
  


The words were true, as true as any he'd ever spoken. They hadn't . . . he hadn't . . .   
  


//We didn't want to hurt you.//   
  


"We just--well, we . . . didn't . . . we weren't . . . I--It was . . . it was my idea . . . to tell--*not* to tell you . . . I mean, we haven't . . . we haven't told anyone--no one, and . . . "   
  


God. He was completely incapable of forming a coherent sentence. Something, anything to wash away the look in her eyes.   
  


"We didn't . . . didn't want you--I'm sorry, *we're* sorry, we . . . we never meant to--to--"   
  


God. What could he say? What could either of them say? "Sorry we've been lying to you for forty-eight days?"   
  


Her eyes held his, still overly bright, blinking rapidly.   
  


"We didn't know if you'd approve."   
  


Ron's voice, uncharacteristically solemn, cut through his own fumbling words.   
  


Both he and Hermione turned, staring at Ron, who was now sitting on the arm of the couch with his elbows on his thighs and his hands between his knees, blue eyes staring seriously at Hermione.   
  


"We--we never wanted to hurt you, Hermione. You're our best friend. We just--didn't know . . . if . . . you'd still like us. If you knew. About. It."   
  


Hurriedly, Ron dropped his eyes from Hermione's, hands fidgeting with the seam of his jeans. A flush of color was beginning to stain his telltale ears and cheeks; his hands continued to explore the inside legs of his denim pants.   
  


"Please, Hermione. Don't be angry with us. We didn't mean to hurt you . . . "   
  


Something in his best friend's voice caught, snared on an errant breath. This was no act, such as Fred and George would have pulled to avoid Molly's wrath; Ron's words--and his pleas for Hermione to understand--were heartfelt.   
  


There was something achingly vulnerable about him, now. The way his hair--such bright hair--hung over his eyes. The way his hands moved restlessly; combing through his hair, picking at the seams of his jeans, smoothing down his arms. Something vulnerable that hurt Harry even more then the rejection he had glimpsed in Hermione's eyes.   
  


Tears were welling in Hermione's eyes again; her eyes remained fixed on Ron.   
  


"I--I know you didn't mean to hurt me. But . . . didn't you trust me? How could you think I wouldn't approve? You . . . you *know* me. I'm your *best* friend. Both of you. How could you . . . "   
  


"It's not that, Hermione."   
  


Now it was Hermione's wild curls hiding her eyes from Harry's; her voice that sounded caught in her throat as she questioned him.   
  


"Then what *is* it, Harry?   
  


Brown curls hid her eyes from him; his gaze slipped over to Ron, who was watching Hermione with a pained expression in his eyes.   
  


"Hermione--"   
  


"Just tell me. How long?"   
  


Guilty blue eyes flickered over to his; Harry stared back. Neither boy wanted to open their mouths . . . the words sounded too damning.   
  


Forty-eight days. Forty eight days since their first kiss and no, they hadn't told Hermione a thing.   
  


Luckily Hermione's voice broke into the silence before either of the boys could speak. Soft, reluctant words, but with a firm tone. This was Hermione problem-solving, figuring out the facts of a puzzle. And even if the puzzle was her two best friends' relationship, it was one she would figure carefully and logically.   
  


"Because . . . because I've been suspecting something for a while. You've both been acting different around each other--its little things, like the way you blush, Ron, when Harry's playing chess with you, or the way you never take your eyes off of Ron, Harry . . . the way you're constantly touching, even if its casual, friendly touches . . . "   
  


Her hand traced the top of the red velvet chair near her; fingers skimming over the dark wood. She was biting her lip, a look of intense concentration on her face.   
  


"Last month . . . you had a mark on your neck, Ron . . . and Harry, I thought you were wearing one of Ron's shirts a couple days ago . . . "   
  


Her eyes were closed, fingers still smoothing down the velvet fabric of the chair next to her. Ron had his head hidden in his hands and his elbows on his knees, red-gold hair dangling, covering the tops of his fingers. Harry couldn't move, didn't think he had moved since Hermione had confronted them the instant he stepped foot through the portrait hole. His best friend's words seemed to have frozen him in place.   
  


"It's been over a month. I know it has."   
  


"So. How long?"   
  


The words seemingly could not move from his chest to his mouth, he ran his fingers distractedly though his own already messy, dark hair.   
  


"Almost two months, Hermione."   
  


Ron's words were low, reluctant, muttered into his hands. Bracing for the anticipated storm that he thought would meet his words.   
  


But the storm didn't come.   
  


Hermione's nod was short, abrupt, a tiny inclination of her chin. Her fingers stilled, eyes trained on the red-haired boy who sat with his head in his hands. Long brown lashes blinked furiously but a few traitorous tears escaped, slipping down her flushed cheeks.   
  


"Two months."   
  


His own voice was low, the sight of Hermione's tears seemed to have rejuvenated his ability to speak.   
  


"We're . . . we are so, so sorry, Hermione. Please, please forgive us. It was stupid not to tell you, we knew that, we knew you'd figure it out. We just didn't know what you'd think . . . "   
  


Furiously, she wiped at the tears sliding down her cheeks, drying them on the sleeves of her robes.   
  


"Please, don't hate us, Hermione. Don't blame Harry. It was my fault, my idea not to tell you. Harry told me some Muggles don't like two blokes getting together and I wasn't sure what your parents thought . . . "   
  


Ron had finally lifted his head; he was gazing at Hermione with a pleading look in his eyes, hands now nervously smoothing the couch upholstery. The color had drained from his face and Harry could trace every freckle. For a brief moment the other boy's eyes met his, and he saw the stark need in them. Ron needed Hermione's assurance that she didn't despise them, that she still loved them, was their friend. It was the expression of someone who could absorb only so much pain. If Hermione didn't forgive them . . . Harry wondered if Ron could recover.   
  


"Hate you? How on earth could I ever possibly hate you?"   
  


Relief hit him, released his breath in a short exclamation.   
  


Thank God.   
  


Her eyes still glistened but a small, tremulous smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth. Carefully, she brushed one damp, curly brown strand of hair from her cheek, eyes flickering back and forth between him and Ron.   
  


"You two are my best friends. I--I am very happy for you both."   
  


Something wistful threaded through her words, but when her eyes met Harry's a second later they were dry for the first time.   
  


"'Moine . . . you're the *best*"   
  


She sniffed, a slow flush of color in her cheeks. Smiling at Ron's emphatic words.   
  


"Maybe. But you two owe me one . . . "   
  


The teasing tone was back in her voice, her eyes met Harry's. Warm and brown, the only traces of tears the drying trails on her face.   
  


"Oh, no!"   
  


"I dropped my books!"   
  


Ron groaned, shaking his head in disbelief as Hermione knelt on the floor, scooping up the books she had flung on the floor earlier. Quickly she stacked her books into a pile before tutting in Ron's direction.   
  


"Ron! You shouldn't leave your books lying on the floor!"   
  


A flash of joy went through Ron's eyes so fast Harry wasn't sure if it was really there.   
  


"Oh, Come on, Hermione. They're all hand-me-downs anyway, what's the big deal if they get a few scuff marks on 'em?"   
  


"That's exactly why you should take better care of them! If Fred and George hadn't used their books as frisbees, yours might not be falling apart right now . . . "   
  


"What in the bloody hell is a frisbee?..."   
  


Only half-listening to his friends good-natured bickering, he picked his own books up off the floor before Hermione could spot them and walked across the Common Room, sitting next to Ron on the arm of the couch. The other boy flashed him a grin and slipped his arm around Harry's waist, tugging him closer and not missing a beat in his argument with Hermione.   
  


"...why on earth would you just sit there and throw a disc in the air? Doesn't it explode, or do *anything* exciting?"   
  


"Ron, things do *not* have to explode to make them exciting..."   
  


Hermione stood, both hers and Ron's books piled in her arms. She turned, setting the books carefully on the closest table. As she did, a ray of winter sun peeked through the clouds and Harry caught a flash of light out of the corner of his eye.   
  


"Hermione? Why are you carrying a mirror in your pocket?"   
  


Evidently Ron had been in the middle of a furious rejoinder; he shot Harry a dirty look immediately before he stopped, gazing curiously at Hermione.   
  


"I...used it in class today. It's how I figured it out. About . . . you two. I saw you two holding hands . . . I thought, when I saw you holding Ron's wrist earlier . . . and so I transfigured my scroll into a mirror . . . I was just so upset that you hadn't told me . . . "   
  
  
  


Forcing the pain in her voice down to a bare minimum, Hermione turned, smiling softly at the sight of them sitting together on the couch.   
  


"I am happy for you. Both of you. I guess I've suspected ever since fourth year, I just didn't want to . . . "   
  


But whatever words she was going to say were cut off with a rueful shake of her head. Harry watched her bite her lip softly, her smile suddenly strained.   
  


"Hermione? Do you want to come to lunch?"   
  


Her brown eyes widened, an inscrutable expression flashing through her eyes.   
  


"Oh, no. Not right now, thanks. I'm not hungry . . . "   
  


Ron watched her, brow furrowed, as she gathered up her books and began to slip quickly up the stairs.   
  


"Hermione? Are you sure you're ok?"   
  


The sound of Ron's voice made her shoulders tense, just noticeably. But she turned and flashed him an almost genuine smile.   
  


"I'll be fine. Don't worry. Go on to lunch without me, I'll see you later."   
  


And with that, she left the Common Room.   
  
  
  
  
  


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Notes: Sorry that took so long, everybody. Holidays, finals, the dentist...pick your excuse. Plus, I didn't really want to type this chapter; this was a scene I *had* to type but didn't really want to. (Sigh) Poor Hermione...I do pay attention to my reviews, and I've had a couple requests for a Ron meets Draco scene which I hadn't originally planned on but is now nibbling at the back of my brain...see what feedback can get you?   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Strategies

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.   
  


Summary: Harry and Ron play chess; Ron mulls things over. Does he want Draco Malfoy dead? If so, how?   
  


Dedication: To Kenna Hijja, who leaves such incredibly detailed reviews, and to anyone else who reviewed the previous chapters. You guys are the best.   
  
  
  


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He sighed, tracing the letters of his name on the polished surface of their table with the tip of his index finger.   
  


R-O-N-A-L-D-W-E-A-S-L   
  


"Your move."   
  


He jerked, chin slipping off his hand, brushing his hair out of his eyes with an impatient gesture. His eyes flickered down to examine the chessboard and then flickered up to stare disbelievingly in Harry's eyes.   
  


"A *pawn*! You took"-- he glanced at his watch-- "six minutes and twenty-seven seconds and you moved a fucking *pawn*?"   
  


A small smirk was tugging at the corners of Harry's mouth; it only increased at the evidence of Ron's scowl.   
  


"Every move requires thought. Isn't that what you said? Besides, we're not timing this game."   
  


Ron's glare just widened Harry's smile, making his dark green eyes sparkle in the light of the candles that illuminated the Great Hall.   
  


"Yeah, and ruddy good thing we're not, too. Or we'd still be playing this the day we graduate."   
  


Harry simply arched an eyebrow at him.   
  


"Well? Aren't you going to move?"   
  


Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like 'four-eyed prat' under his breath, Ron turned his attention back to the chess board.   
  


They'd been playing for well over an hour now; Harry's slower-then-a-flobberworms-moves had contributed to that. Night had fallen...dinner had ended hours ago, but the Great Hall was uncommonly crowded tonight. Some problem with the fireplaces, or the floo network; the teachers had chased the students out of their common rooms, muttering about the cost of repairs. Most of the younger students had simply gone up to their bedrooms -- it had been late in the evening when the teachers had shooed them away. Seamus and Dean had followed Ron and Harry to the Hall; they were playing a game of Exploding Snap halfway down the table. He and Harry had intended to go up to their room, originally...get a little time together, but then Neville had announced he was going to get some sleep.   
  


Hermione had joined them for about ten minutes and then fled, muttering something about the library and studying for next weeks Transfiguration test. Ever since yesterday afternoon, after Potions...well, she hadn't exactly been *avoiding* them, but...   
  


Something had changed. She had smiled when Harry had sat next to him on the couch and even teased them a little bit, but...something had changed, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. The look in her eyes when he and Harry had confessed to her kept playing in the back of his mind; he couldn't seem to forget it. Or the outright terror that had flooded through him when he thought she might not forgive them.   
  


God. It had been so stupid, so incredibly fucking stupid, not to tell Hermione. Hell, it was...*Hermione!* Brilliant Hermione, who knew everything...   
  


If it had been...just about him and Harry, it wouldn't have been a problem. It wouldn't. If he and Harry had discovered...before...that they loved each other this way, then they would have told her instantly. Well, *he* would have. Harry tended to be a bit more reserved, understandably...but they certainly wouldn't have kept it a closely-guarded secret for forty-eight days. They wouldn't have measured every touch, every glance, even around Hermione.   
  


But it *wasn't* just the two of them. And it never would be. There was the other party, the vile third member of their cursed little triangle, and Hermione could never know about that. Never.   
  


Resolutely, he shook the thoughts from his head, concentrating again on the chess board. He was black; two of Harry's pawns were currently threatening one of his bishops. Or would be, if Harry moved the way Ron predicted he was going to.   
  


//Concentrate, Weasley. Concentrate.//   
  


Unable to stop himself, his eyes flickered up to Harry's, trying to gage his best friend's expression, perhaps divine his moves in his eyes...   
  


But Harry's dark head wasn't bent over, examining the movements and advice of the pieces arrayed on the board in front of him. Nor were Harry's green eyes fixed on him like they were so often, now...catching Harry gazing at him, any one of a thousand expressions on his face, had become quite common in the past few months.   
  


For almost two months now, he and Harry had had a silent agreement upon reaching the Great Hall; Ron never, ever, faced the Slytherin table. Always sitting with his back to the green and silver-decorated table, eyes facing the giant windows lining the northern end of the hall. There were times when he could feel...someone...watching him, and it always made his skin crawl. Always made him just want to draw his wand and perform an Unforgivable on Malfoy right there, in front of everyone...   
  


No, Harry wasn't looking at him. Or the chess game.   
  


The Slytherins had vacated their dungeon common room as well.   
  


Occasionally that evening he had heard it, even over the din of the other students...a cold drawl that made his shoulders tense, his fists clench. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He hated it. Hated that that bastard still had so much power over him, that just the sound of his voice or his name made him flinch...   
  


God. It had been two months, almost. Two bloody months! He...   
  


He couldn't go on like this.   
  


He couldn't.   
  


He wouldn't.   
  


Harry was right, they had to do something. Anything. Not...not just to make Malfoy pay. No, not just that. No matter how many pounds of flesh they tried to extract from the Slytherin, that wouldn't erase what had happened, to him or to Harry. Making Malfoy pay wouldn't help him to sleep any better at night, wouldn't banish the dreams that haunted him at night. Wouldn't change anything.   
  


Maybe...maybe eliminating him would.   
  


Maybe...yes. Get rid of him. Get rid of the constant presence in the halls, in the class room. The cold eyes that he could feel on him practically all the time, now.   
  


But how? Did he want to kill him?   
  


Only when his Knight poked the flesh of his palm with his miniature sword did Ron realize he had been squeezing the small chess piece too tightly. The figure squirmed in his fist, launching a furious tirade of invective at him. The sound of the tinny voice made Harry jump, jerking his gaze away from the Slytherin table, brushing his dark bangs out of his eyes haphazardly.   
  


"Hey, Ron. Are you ever gonna move?"   
  


Carefully, he set the Knight down on the square he had occupied previously, letting the tips of his fingers linger over his black chess pieces. His concentration had been lagging; he was barely beating Harry. Sad, really. Chess was the one thing he had always been able to focus on, the one thing...well, besides quidditch...where he could block out all other distractions.   
  


What the fuck. He was nearly flunking all his classes because he couldn't concentrate, why should his chess ability be spared?   
  


Before...their games hadn't gone like this. Harry's moves had been far more tentative and less thought out. Less planned. Playing, planning strategy only in response to Ron's own moves. But in the past few months, the other boy had switched strategy, became far more offensive...and more thoughtful. Hence the six minute agonizing over the pawn. Meanwhile, his own strategy had slipped; become more hurried, less aggressive...   
  


Wearily, he rubbed his eyes with his fisted hands...a childlike gesture he had never quite grown out of. Resting his forehead on the palm of his hand, surveying the chess board through his fingers. Peripherally aware of Harry's eyes on him, a bit worried now. If only Harry knew how well he, Ron, could read Harry's eyes, even through those thick, black-rimmed glasses...   
  


Once again, his pieces were on the defensive, clustering around their black King rather than approaching Harry's end of the board. Right. This was fucking stupid. He needed to get on the offensive, to do something, and he needed to do it right fucking now...   
  


His pieces, usually so patient, shifted their feet, pawing at their squares. They were actually shouting advice to *him,* something no chess piece had done in earnest since he had begun playing, practicing against Percy and Charlie...   
  


"Ron..."   
  


"Fuck." Both of his hands were fisted in his hair now; he could feel the strain of the strands gripped between his fingers. "Fuck, Harry."   
  


There was more than a simple hint of concern in Harry's eyes now; the green eyes he knew so well were focused intently on him and he could see the emotion that Harry always held veiled beneath them. This chess game had been his idea; something to mentally exhaust both of them, perhaps distract them from the nightmares that they both knew were coming when they fell asleep...   
  


And now he couldn't make a move. He didn't know what to do. This was *chess!* Fucking chess, *his* skill, *his* best game. He *always* knew what to do, no matter the situation. This was chess, this was his bloody *life* and it didn't seem to have any rules anymore...   
  


He bit back a groan, fists clenching his hair even tighter, eyes closed. Not wanting to see the look on Harry's face.   
  


"Fuck, Harry."   
  


"I don't know what to do."   
  


He kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to look at the board, with the pieces offering advice he wouldn't have needed two months ago. He didn't want to look down the table at Seamus and Dean, laughing and playing Exploding Snap with some other sixth-years. He didn't want to look out the window and watch the rain lash the high windows. And he really, really didn't want to look at Harry, see the concern in his best friend's eyes.   
  


Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck...   
  


"Ron..."   
  


"Harry?"   
  


The tentative sound of Colin Creevy's voice broke into his thoughts. His eyes flew open; the fifth year was standing behind Harry; shifting his feet and gazing at the Boy Who Lived with adoring eyes. Normally, the sight of Colin either amused or exasperated him, depending on how evident Harry's annoyance at the younger boy was. Now, though, he could cheerfully have chased the boy out of the Great Hall with a couple of well-placed hexes. Now was *not* the time to endure another sycophantic session with Creevy.   
  


Evidently Harry could see the flush of anger in his cheeks; his eyes flickered nervously from Ron to Colin. Even as he watched Harry open his mouth to respond to Colin, he felt a tap on his ankle, then the brush of a leg against his own. Slow strokes against the inside of his leg...was Harry doing what he *thought* he was doing? Still, it was kind of nice, twining his feet and ankles with Harrys' under the table even as the other boy talked to Colin. The flush of anger that had risen in his ears and cheeks at Colin's appearance now deepened with embarrassed pleasure. 

He felt the hem of his robes being pushed away from his jeans by a brush of Harry's shoe.   
  


A small snicker escaped him. Creevy's eyes darted nervously to look at him before focusing back on Harry, whose face looked completely calm, as if he wasn't currently nudging the leg of Ron's jeans up his leg with the toe of his shoe.   
  


"Yes, Colin? What is it?"   
  


Colin seemingly did not hear the faint sound of exasperation in Harry's voice; he beamed at the other boys words.   
  


"McGonnagal sent me to get you, Harry. Isn't it great? She said she needed to talk to you about next weeks Quidditch game against Slytherin since you're the Captain, and she couldn't find you upstairs, and I wasn't doing anything really important, just studying for a test, so I said I'd come find you and I looked in about half a dozen places and then someone said that you and Ron were in the Great Hall playing chess and--"   
  


Colin rattled on; Ron fought--unsuccessfully--to fight down the smirk that was forming on his own mouth. Evidently Harry saw it; the nudge the other boy's foot gave his ankle wasn't as gentle as the other ones had been.   
  


"Ok, Colin. I got it. I need to see McGonnagal."   
  


The short, brown haired boy practically jumped up and down with excitement at Harry's response.   
  


"I'll walk with you to McGonnagal's office, Harry. Its not that far! I can't wait to hear what your strategy is going to be against Slytherin, they always try out some of their worst stuff on you..."   
  


"Err...right. Just a minute, Colin. Ron?"   
  


For a second, Ron swore he saw a flash of jealousy in Creevy's eyes when Harry cut him off, turning to face Ron. The feet around his ankle squeezed tighter.   
  


"All right if I see you later? This shouldn't take too long--"   
  


Maybe it was the obvious exasperation in Harry's voice that amused him, or the flash of jealousy in Colin's eyes. Maybe it was the familiarity of his surroundings, the muted noise of a hundred people conversing, playing, and laughing that filled the Great Hall. Maybe it was the idea that Harry's absence, however brief, would give him time to determine his strategy in the chess game he was precariously close to losing. Or maybe it was the ankles tangled with his beneath the table. Whatever it was, he grinned, feeling a strange feeling of euphoria sweep through him. Not at the fact that Harry was leaving him, but at the realization that Harry was going to leave him alone, and he *was going to be Ok.* He really was. For almost two months, he hadn't been able to let Harry out of his sight without nearly going mad. The shortness of breath, the cold feeling in his stomach...they weren't there.   
  


He grinned at Harry, even flashing a smile at Colin.   
  


"No problem, Harry. I'll just stay here and work out a way to slaughter you at this game, eh?"   
  


Colin eyes flew wide; he made a sound of shocked indignation, no doubt at the idea that his hero, Harry Potter, could lose at *anything* to *anyone.* But Harry's eyes sparkled at him; there was more then a touch of heat in them. A slow smile bloomed on the other boy's face.   
  


"Right. See you in a minute. Ready, Colin?"   
  


Harry quickly untangled his legs from Ron's and walked quickly out of the Hall, Colin tagging along at his heels. Ron watched him leave; Seamus caught his eye and grinned, Ron grinned back before turning his attention back to the chess board, where the pieces had pretty much abandoned their formation and were either napping, flirting, or gossiping.   
  


"So then the Black Knight looked like he was flirting with the White Queen, and I can tell you that that did not go over well with the White King..."   
  


"Hey!"   
  


His indignant tone alerted them to his presence. A few of the Pawns jumped, the Bishops simply looked at him.   
  


"What is this, one of my mother's tea parties?"   
  


Outraged exclamations met his words; he smiled at the pieces, brushing his longer hair out of his eyes. Hell, it was really, really time to get a haircut. The fringe was past his eyes, now; an awkward length that he couldn't tuck behind his ears. He had never had his hair this long before, but it hid his eyes, and it felt really, really incredible when Harry was running his fingers through it...   
  


No. He would not think about that. Now. Now he could figure out his strategy without distraction. Thinking of Harry running his fingers through his hair would definitely, definitely classify as a distraction. He bent closer, focusing on the left side of the board, oblivious to the rest of the room. He could mount an offensive against Harry's flank with a quick slash move by his bishop, putting Harry's knight in check. It was...obvious. Blatantly, completely obvious. The other boy had been *too* aggressive, opening himself up to a counter attack. A common mistake when one switched strategies. All he had to do--   
  


"Hello, Weasley."   
  


The wooden tip of a wand slid up the length of his neck, goose bumps following directly in its path. Breath caught in his throat as the wand stilled, barely pressing against the skin behind his ear, nudging a few strands of red hair out of the way.   
  


//No...//   
  


Bent over his chessboard he froze, eyes flying open wide, staring in shock at the reflection in the window across from his. Watery, wavy, blurred; the rain was still lashing the windows. But distinct enough to see himself, his chessboard...and the silvery-blonde haired figure standing behind him, wand hidden almost completely by the long sleeve of his dark green robes.   
  
  
  


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Ummm...don't kill me. Then I can't write anymore! Hopefully will be updated soon. Reviews?   
  


  
  
  
  



	5. Perspectives

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: See Chapter 1   
  


Dedication: To everyone who threatened my life, demanding a new chapter. (Smiles) Like I said, you guys are the best.   
  


Notes: Wow. I never imagined doing this chapter from three POV's, but it just hit me (after trying Ron and Harry's)...what about Draco's? Aaaah. I feel like a complete idiot now, but my brain is on fire. (In a good way)   
  
  
  
  
  


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The wooden tip of his wand slid up the length of the pale, freckled neck, pressing firmly against the skin behind the boys right ear.   
  


A slow, agonized shiver gripped the red-head sitting in front of him; bent over his chessboard, examining it with intent eyes, the Gryffindor had never seen him approach.   
  


A low rumble of thunder went through the Great Hall, a brief flash of lightening. His nurse had told him once that lightening was the work of the most powerful Dark wizards, ones who dwelt in the clouds and dealt out destruction and death at their whims. It was an old fairy tale, a story told to all wizard children, one intended to prevent them from playing outside during thunderstorms. A fable he had heard countless times as a child. As had Ron, he supposed. The other boy was a wizard child, too.   
  


White-knuckled hands were clutching the top of the table in a death grip; the other boy had frozen, still bent over his chessboard, where more then a few of the pieces were staring at the two young wizards with genuine curiosity. One of them, a Black Knight, yelled something at Draco and waved his tiny sword in what was supposed to be a threatening manner. He resisted the urge to simply seize the whole board and fling it on the floor, crushing the impertinent chess piece beneath his feet.   
  


Instead he tightened the grip around his wand, using its tip to nudge a few strands of red-gold hair out of the way, exposing more pale skin. No matter how much he wanted to destroy the other boy's beloved chess set, throwing it on the floor would cause a scene, draw the eyes of every Gryffindor and Slytherin in the room, and that was something he didn't want. Yet. The half-blood Irish boy and his Mudblood best friend were only halfway down the table, playing a game of Exploding Snap. If either of them noticed the wand that was resting against the back of Weasley's head they would be on him instantly. Also, there was no telling where Potter had gone, or when he would be back. Only the fact that he had left with that sniveling little Creevy mudblood had been impetus enough for him to approach Weasley; the little snot would talk Potter's ear off and keep him away from Weasley. Long enough, hopefully.   
  
  
  


A low sound met his ears; Weasley was breathing rapidly, nearly gasping for air. Much like Potter had done, down in the cave. He smiled softly, shifting his wand, making sure that the long green sleeve of his robes covered its wooden length. Leaning over the other boy, he could barely make out his profile...freckles standing out starkly on his pale face, jaw clenched hard, blue eyes closed tight. A small muscle in his neck was twitching...   
  


Even as he watched, those startling blue eyes flew open. But Weasley didn't turn his head or even try to look at Draco through the corners of his eyes. Instead, he fixed his startled gaze on the opposite side of the room.   
  


His own eyes flickered up to see what Weasley was staring at and his smile widened. Clever Gryffindor. The rain was still pounding down outside, leaving streaks of water running down the windows; the entire Great Hall was reflected in the watery image. Blurry and indistinct, but he could see them, both of them, shimmering wetly on the window.   
  


Even when they were only mere reflections, Weasley's eyes held his gaze, shining dark blue against the dark window. More then a few strands of long, red-gold hair obscured the boys expression, but he could see the underlying panic in the other boys eyes, the set of his jaw. He could practically taste the red-heads fear on his tongue...   
  


A small explosion shook the table, rattling the chess pieces, making Weasley's grip on the tabletop slip. In the window he saw the Irish half-blood give a cry of triumph and the Mudblood boy rubbing ash out of his eyebrows. A few half-interested glances rippled through the Hall, watching the Gryffindor game, but none of them lingered on him or Weasley.   
  


Of course not. Potter wasn't there, and he was the only reason anyone would have looked twice. The Boy Who Lived had left for God knows where with Colin Creevy, handing Draco a golden opportunity on a silver platter. Leaving Weasley alone for the first time in months...   
  


Ever since their little deal, he had never seen Weasley or Potter without the other. In class, in the halls, in the Great Hall. At practice. Not too much of a change from before, perhaps, but intensely frustrating. Infuriating.   
  


It had taken less then a few weeks after their encounter for his need to return. An itch under his skin, a craving that nothing could control. Memories of Weasley and Potter weren't enough, anymore then fantasies had been enough last time. But last time had been fairly easy. This time both boys had their guards up; this time, he had nothing to blackmail Weasley with. No poor innocent Potter, tears in those pretty green eyes, gasping his dying breath less then a foot away from his naive best friend.   
  


The wand trembled in his grip and he scowled, eyes fixed on the reflection. Weasley was still bent over the board, eyes wide, full of panic.   
  


A soft whisper of cloth; he hadn't even realized he had moved closer to the other boy until he saw the contrast of his dark green robes against the faded pale black of the Gryffindors.' Repeated washes had dimmed the once jet-black robes; the sleeves were frayed, the neck too small. Far too small, actually--with Weasley crouched over the table, his robes had pulled away from the back of his neck, exposing a length of pale skin.   
  


Inside his pocket his fingers twitched, rubbing against the silky material of his robes. A soft hiss of irritation escaped his lips, questing fingers were clenched into tight fists. No. Pulling a wand on the other boy in the middle of the Great Hall was bad enough. If anyone spied him actually *touching* Weasley...   
  


His other hand, however, was not listening to his brain. The fingers crawled down the length of his wand, lingering only millimeters away from the skin of Weasley's neck. A flash of blue eyes in the window told him that the Gryffindor was still gazing at him, eyes wide, breathing harsh.   
  


Traitorous fingers brushed against the back of Weasley's neck, a soft touch that sent desperate shivers down the other boy's back. Coppery hair glinted between his fingertips; the skin was flushed, warm to the touch. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, the memory of a taste of freckled skin on his tongue, between his teeth. Pressing the tip of his wand a little more firmly against the red-headed boys neck, his fingers continued to brush over the boys back, tracing the line of a light smattering of freckles that disappeared into the collar of yet another hideous Chudley Cannons shirt. His fingers trailed downwards, leaving shudders in their wake.   
  


Warmth began to bloom in his stomach as his fingers skimmed over the other boys skin, listening to his frantic breath. Pleasure that he had been long denied in the last two months. Teasing, taunting, touching...   
  


Suddenly Ron jerked, hands pushing against the table, flinging his head up and back.   
  


"Don't. Touch. Me."   
  


Twisted, rough words; finally, the boy was talking. Oh, but he could hear the pained, reluctant pleading in that furious tone.   
  


All this, because of what he had done.   
  


All this, because of one little touch, whisper soft. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, tangling his fingers briefly in Weasley's longer hair before letting them fall away, curling around the length of his wand.   
  


Something in the other boy seemed to have shattered at the touch of his fingers. Draco rubbed the pad of his thumb against his wand, marveling at his power. Just a touch, a breath...just his presence, and he could control the boy in front of him. So incredibly sweet...   
  


"Never. Touch. Me."   
  


Such a soft, imploring tone, laced with pain.   
  


Another step; his chest was almost against the other boy's back. His robes shifted against his skin and he shivered slightly at the sensation.   
  


"It's a little too late for that, don't you think, Weasley?"   
  


Still, the red-headed boy refused to look at him, staring instead at their reflection in the rain-streaked window. Draco watched in the window, watching the tension in the Gryffindor's shoulders grow the closer his own, pale-haired image came.   
  


He hadn't meant to do this. This was too obvious, too blatant. If anyone took a good look at Weasley, they'd instantly see something was seriously wrong, and it wouldn't be too far of a guess to suppose that the something wrong was *him.* The closer he got, the more he touched, the more he lost control...the more danger he was in. Of being caught. And Malfoys did not get caught.   
  


Cursing his lack of control he leaned closer until they were almost cheek to cheek, strands of hair moving at his every breath. Longer hair this time, hiding Weasley's eyes. Those expressive eyes...   
  


"You--"   
  


"Go away, Malfoy." The other boy was shuddering now, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. Such amazing power, that just one little word--   
  


"Go away. Now. Don't touch me."   
  


Another flicker of his tongue, wetting his lips.'Don't touch me.' How could he possibly resist such a prettily offered challenge?   
  


Almost out of its own accord, his free hand slipped out of his pocket, slowly moving to hover over Weasley's shoulder. He wondered what the robe fabric would feel like, if the shoulder beneath it would jerk under his fingertips. Probably. Small tremors still shaking that slender frame, just like down in the cave...   
  


"Touch me, and I'll kill you."   
  


Air escaped him in a rush before he could take it back, twisting his lips over his exclamation of surprise. Outside the window, another flash of lightening brightened the sky, followed by a distant rumble of thunder.   
  


//Touch me, and I'll kill you.//   
  


Truth rang in every word. It was the same tone the boy had used, back in the cave, when declaring his love for Potter.   
  


And his hatred for Draco.   
  


Before he realized, his fingers had flinched away from the other boy's shoulder, curling reflexively into a fist.   
  


Perhaps he should have finished him off. Afterwards. It was an adage he had received with his mother's milk to never leave an enemy at his back. Let alone two. But if he killed them, it would be over. There would be nothing left, no satiation for the dreams that kept him awake at night. Perhaps if he simply eliminated Potter...but no, Potter was reserved for the Dark Lord alone.   
  


No. Better to wait. Wait for the Lord's victory, wait for Potter's defeat. Divide the spoils of war. Another adage he had known since childhood.   
  


To the victor...go the spoils.   
  


Weasley would regret his words greatly once the war was over.   
  


For the first time since he had approached the Gryffindor the boy released his grip on the table top, pulling his hands away from the chess board. Hands began to form into fists, and Draco dug the tip of his wand harder into the boys neck.   
  


"You seem to have forgotten something, Weasley."   
  


A violent shake of that bright red head, intended to dodge the point of his wand, but Draco only tightened his grip, keeping the tip of it dead center in the Gryffindor's neck. A soft chuckle slipped out of him. Enticing, really, to see a little fire returning to Ron.   
  


Never taking his eyes away from his reflection, the other boy moved out of his crouched position until he saw sitting upright, back straight, shoulders tight. Draco allowed the Gryffindor's movement, yielding him space...but he did not move his wand. Or his hand, which continued to hover over Weasley's shoulder.   
  


Now their faces were closer then ever; he could see the flush of anger in the other boy's cheeks. Teeth clenched almost painfully, and the other boy wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, an action that shot a jolt of desire through Draco.   
  


A quick glance at their reflection, and the intimacy of their position struck him. His face was a hairs-breadth away from Weasley's, his mouth ghosting over the other boy's ear. Face flushed, breathing erratic, lips wet; the Gryffindor looked so --   
  


"Go away. Now."   
  


There was no pleading in the tone this time, all other emotion had been buried under a swell of rage. A jolt of triumph went through him. Weasley was letting his temper take over now. Ruled by emotion, the boy was reckless, impulsive, and easily led.   
  


Draco's eyes narrowed and he moved closer, breathing his words in the other boy's ear.   
  


"What? Are you just going to let me go, Weasley? Letting the big, bad Slytherin escape?"   
  


Weasley's jaw was clenched tight now, shoulders tightening more with every word. Draco smirked, amused as the other boy flinched back from his breath.   
  


"Waiting for your champion to arrive and save you? Afraid to do anything without Potter? Jealous that he ran off with that Mudblood Creevy?"   
  


Weasley's shaking hands were fisted in his faded black robes, clutching the fabric in a death grip. A bit closer, and he could actually feel the strands of the other boy's hair tickling his own forehead.   
  


"Or maybe...maybe you want me to go away for another reason. Maybe you're not as angry as I thought. Tell me..." finally, his hand closed over the other boy's shoulder, latching his fingers onto the Gryffindor's skin, feeling the shoulder jerk under his touch. "...did you enjoy your first time?"   
  


An inarticulate expression of rage echoed in his ears and then suddenly furious blue eyes filled his vision as Weasley seized the front of Draco's robes threw his body backwards, knocking his shoulder into Draco's wand arm and sending the stick of wood scattering across the floor.   
  


His own hands clutched at whatever he could, fingers seizing the other boy's own robes and fistfuls of that bright red hair, pulling the Gryffindor down to the hard stone floor with him, twisting their bodies so that Weasley took the brunt of the fall. Draco heard a dull thud as the back of Weasley's head hit the ground, saw the other boy blink and shake his head dazedly. Both his hands were fisted in the boys red hair now, one of his hands slipped down, scratching down Weasley's neck before seizing his head and tugging it upwards, forcing their lips together in a harsh, quick kiss.   
  


Tremors of rage shook the boy beneath him and Weasley seized Draco's own hair and wrenched his face away, attacking him with renewed fury. A hard fist struck him on the side of the face, stunning him; Weasley took advantage and shoved Draco off of him, eyes blazing with fury, fist already cocked for another punch.   
  


"Ron! Malfoy! What the hell are you doing! Fuck, Ron, get off of him!"   
  


Whether the mudblood or the Irish boy was speaking Draco didn't know. The Gryffindor's fingers were clutching at his throat now, tight enough to leave bruises. Strands of silvery-blond hair fell into his eyes and he snarled, his own hands flailing at Weasley's throat.   
  
  
  


"Ron, stop it. Get off him! Get the fuck off of him! He's turning purple...Damn it! Get the fuck off of him!!"   
  


In a daze, Draco realized that the Mudblood and the Irish half-blood were tugging at Weasley, grabbing his robes, his arms, his hair, anything to pull him away from Draco. But Weasley was fighting them almost as hard as he was Draco, refusing to release his grip on Draco's neck.   
  


"Lavender! Go find Harry or Hermione...please! Ron, come on--Snape's coming..."   
  


The grip on his neck loosened, ever so slightly. The Mudblood jerked at the neck of Weasley's robes, finally pulling him off Draco. Both Gryffindors seized the red-headed boys arms, restraining him desperately.   
  


"What the fuck did you say to him, Malfoy?"   
  


Spat out in a furious tone by Finnigan. Little Irish bastard. Draco blinked, air rasping in and out of his lungs and searing his throat. Breathing was an agony, making his head swim. God, that red head was going to *pay* for this...   
  


Lip curling back from his teeth Draco pushed himself to his feet, acutely aware of the students surrounding him. Mostly Gryffindors, of course. The Slytherin table was on the opposite side of the room but he could see them hurrying over: Pansy and Blaize and Millicent, Crabbe and Goyle...   
  


And Snape.   
  


Licking his lips, tasting blood and sweat and Weasley's kiss, he straightened, smoothing his robes and smirking at the Gryffindors. Thomas and Finnigan were still clutching Weasley's robes in a death grip, pulling him back, muttering words in his ears. The red head ignored them both, however. Fists still clenched, face still flushed, still snarling: Weasley looked more then ready to follow through on his threat. Blue eyes bore down on him.   
  


Deliberately, Draco held the other boys scorching gaze, eyes flickering up and down, surveying the damage he had done. Sweaty, disheveled, robes torn and lips wet; Weasley fighting looked remarkably like Weasley fucking.   
  


Draco reached up, patting his lip with the tips of his fingers. Dropping his gaze to survey his hand, he noticed a small smear of blood staining his fingertips, and rubbed the liquid against his skin before once again locking his gray eyes with Weasley's blue ones. Still panting, still flushed, still focused entirely on him.   
  


Cooly, Draco arched an eyebrow.   
  


"Enjoy yourself, Weasley?"   
  


His voice was hoarse and raspy, he could barely understand his own words. The red-head understood them well enough, though; he snarled and fought even harder against the boys holding him. Struggling and shouting, his furious yells echoing through the Great Hall.   
  


"I'm going to kill you. Do you hear me, Malfoy? I'm going to fucking kill you!"   
  


"You will do no such thing, Weasley."   
  


Draco drew another breath, again feeling the air like sandpaper in his throat. Another breath. And another. Watching the Gryffindors around him mutter at Snape's arrival.   
  


Over Snape's shoulder he saw realization begin to dawn in those pretty blue eyes.   
  


"Threatening the life of another student is a serious offense, Weasley, whether or not it is truly intended. Punishment for this infraction must warrant the offense...sixty points from Gryffindor. Now, accompany Mr. Malfoy to the Hospital wing, and then report to your head of house. Professor McGonnagal will determine the rest of your punishment."   
  


The tone of Snape's voice made it quite clear that, whatever punishment Minerva McGonnagal would devise, be it boiling in oil, it would not be near as strict as the one *he* would have demanded.   
  


Another mutter went through the Gryffindors, more then a few glares were directed at the Potions Professor. But it was Weasley's eyes he couldn't look away from.   
  


The red-headed boy winced, a lock of hair falling down over his forehead. The flush of anger was slowly fading from the other boy's neck, fear was seeping back into his eyes.   
  


"Mr. Malfoy. I believe you dropped your wand."   
  


Cold dark eyes, half hidden by greasy strands of hair, assessed him as his head of house slipped the mahogany wand back into his hand.   
  


He smiled, smoothing the wood of his wand with the pads of his bloody fingers. Quickly, so that no one else could notice, he glimpsed at Weasley...and saw panic tugging at his eyes, saw the blue eyes fixed on him, and his wand.   
  


"No."   
  


A strangled, desperate denial escaped Weasley's throat.   
  


"No, Mr. Weasley?"   
  


The red head swallowed, shaking his head, eyes still fixed on the wand in Draco's hands.   
  


"No. I will not go with him to the Hospital Wing. I won't."   
  


All the color had drained from the Gryffindor's face, now. Stark white, each freckle a dark spot on his pale face.   
  


Carefully, Draco moved, tucking his wand into the inside pocket of his robes. As he had anticipated, the action drew Weasley's blue eyes up, and their gazes locked.   
  


A fond memory tugged at him. Such a familiar expression of bitter realization in those eyes...   
  


Mr. Weasley. You *will* accompany Mr. Malfoy to the Infirmary. Right. Now."   
  
  
  
  
  


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Boy, guys...I am really, really sorry. I swear I never thought it would take this long to post this chapter, or I wouldn't have ended it where I did...but then the holidays came, time left, and I couldn't get near my computer long enough to type...but anyway, here it is. I swear to you that the next chapter will come sooner than this one did; half of its written already. Whew. Anyway, review, if you want to.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Switches

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: Not mine. See Chapter 1. Or any of my other fics. Or my profile. Or my bank statement.   
  


Summary: An inevitable confrontation. The first. But not the last.   
  


Dedication: To everyone who threatened my life, demanding a new chapter. *Smiles* Like I said, you guys are the best.   
  


Notes: Sorry for taking so long. The holidays, you know...   
  
  
  


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The wooden tip of a wand nudged at the back of his ear; the muscles in his throat tightened, cutting off his breath. A fierce drumming sound pounded in his ears that he belatedly recognized as the beat of his own heart.   
  


He couldn't move.   
  


A low rumble of thunder outside echoed throughout the hall; the storm was getting worse. A brief flash of lightening brightened the room and then faded, allowing Ron to once again see his reflection in the windows of the Great Hall.   
  


The jolt of electricity had not changed the image he saw there. Not that he'd expected it to; neither the thunder nor the lightening had lessened the gentle pressure of the wand on the back of his neck.   
  


The pale-haired figure in the dark green robes still stood behind him, one hand hidden in his robes, the other clutching the wand held at Ron's throat. The rain streaking down the windows made their reflections shimmer indistinctly, blurring the features on both their faces. Not that he needed to see the other boys face. He knew who it was, would have known even if the Slytherin hadn't spoken a word. Over the past few months, he had become increasingly adept at sensing the presence of two people. Two very, very different people.   
  


Halfway down the table Seamus yelled in triumph; the Exploding Snap pack had just detonated at Dean's move. The small explosion shook the table slightly; a number of Ron's chess pieces tottered on their squares and his black Knight was almost thrown off when his horse reared on its tiny stone legs, hooves cutting into the air barely a breath away from the White Bishop's face.   
  


The air in his lungs burned; he had not exhaled since he had first heard the cold drawl of the other boy's voice. Slowly he breathed, forcing his hands to release their white knuckled grip on the table top. His palms itched.   
  


Cold fingertips ghosted over his skin, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. A whisper of a touch, so light he could have been imagining it...but no, there was the movement, in the rain-streaked reflection.   
  


A sour taste rose in his throat at the sensation of those soft caresses and he jerked, twisting away, pushing blindly against the heavy wooden Gryffindor table, throwing his head back. Anything to remove those dead fingers from his skin.   
  


"Don't. Touch. Me."   
  


He ground the words out desperately, each syllable feeling like glass in his throat. His lip curled, loathing the pleading tone that had bled into his harsh words.   
  


Slowly, the fingers fell away, their touch lingering like a disease on his skin.   
  


The rounded tip of the wand, however, remained.   
  


"Never. Touch. Me."   
  


A whisper of cloth sounded deafeningly loud in his ears. The watery image in the window shifted, reflecting the movements of the boy behind him as he stepped forward, so close that Ron could feel the heat from the Slytherin's body, the weight of the other boys eyes on his back. Icy words tumbled into his ears.   
  


"It's a little too late for that, don't you think, Weasley?"   
  


Heat was scorching his cheeks, flooding his brain, making it hard to think. There was a stinging pain in the palms of his hands, nails digging into the skin.   
  


Draco Malfoy's reflection bent over; he could feel the warm gusts of the real boy's breath on the side of his face.   
  


"You--"   
  


"Go away, Malfoy." His entire body was shaking, now. "Go away. Now. Don't touch me."   
  


Pain rippled through him as he spat the words out, again hearing the desperation in his voice. The words echoed cruelly in his own mind: 'Go away, leave me alone, don't hurt me, don't hurt me, please don't hurt me...'   
  


Another subtle movement in the window as Malfoy's free hand slipped out from underneath his robes, hovering bare centimeters above Ron's left shoulder.   
  


"Touch me, and I'll kill you."   
  


A quick intake of breath beside his ear was Malfoy's only response. Outside the window, another flash of lightening brightened the sky, followed by a distant rumble of thunder.   
  


He sensed the loathsome hand that had been hovering over his shoulder jerk back and, for the first time since he had felt the pressure of the wand on the back of his neck, he began to loosen his white-knuckled grip on the tabletop.   
  


He had meant it. Every word. Vile images and sensations were surfacing in his memory, brought back to life by the touch of Malfoy's fingers. If the Slytherin touched him again, he *would* kill him.   
  


A dull pain throbbed in his neck as Draco dug the tip of his wand in further, words hissing in Ron's ears.   
  


"You seem to have forgotten something, Weasley."   
  


That wand. He hated that fucking thing. A stupid, simple length of wood, but it had almost taken Harry's life.   
  


//I'm going to kill you, Malfoy. But first I'm going to break your fucking wand.//   
  


The sensation of that wood on his neck was almost as disgusting as Draco's fingers on his skin. He tossed his head back, trying to dodge the point of the wand, remove its pressure from his skin. But the Slytherin had anticipated him; the point remained dead center in his neck.   
  


Soft breath whispered through his hair as Malfoy laughed; a soft chuckle.   
  


Heat began to burn in his face, his fingers began to clench.   
  


//You bastard. I'm going to kill you. And then...//   
  


Anger was singing through his nerves, making his jaw clench and his fingers twitch. Slowly, he pulled away from the chess board, eyes still focused on their reflections in the window.   
  


The Slytherin still had his hand hovering over him. Inches away from his shoulder. A shoulder, if Ron remembered correctly, the fucking vampire had *bitten* last time.   
  


The point of Malfoy's wand still dug in his neck, but somehow, Ron had left his fear behind when he pulled away from his chessboard. Perhaps it was still there, but he couldn't feel it now; he couldn't feel anything now except fury. He had meant exactly what he said.   
  


Malfoy's face was bare inches away from his own, so close he could feel the other boys breath on his face, gusting his hair. The bastard was taunting him. Deliberately.   
  
  
  


//Touch me, Malfoy...and I'll kill you. I mean it.//   
  


"You--"   
  


"Go away. Now." He was amazed the words had gotten past his lips; his jaw felt wired shut, his throat clenched. He didn't even know why he was saying the words; Malfoy wouldn't listen. Ron knew that, better then anyone. He'd already given the boy more than enough warning, far more than the bastard deserved. Yet here he was...   
  


His fists were trembling underneath the table; he was very, very close to losing himself. Very soon now, it was going to come to a head. Malfoy was *baiting* him, goading him into making the first move, but sometimes that was more of a disadvantage than anything else. The Slytherin had obviously waited until Harry had left; he was planning this. He wouldn't give the Slytherin the satisfaction. He wouldn't. But, God...   
  


//I'm going to kill you.//   
  


Warm, wet breath whispered in his ear. Soft, hissing words that caused the anger to return, full force.   
  


"Waiting for your champion to arrive and save you? Afraid to do anything without Potter? Jealous that he ran off with that Mudblood Creevy?"   
  


The idea of Harry and...and *Colin*...was so absurd that, for a moment, Ron almost laughed right in Malfoy's face. But then the boys next words hit him.   
  


"Or maybe...maybe you want me to go away for another reason. Maybe you're not as angry as I thought. Tell me...."   
  


The same hand and the same fingers that had seized his shoulders and held him down, all those days ago, closed over his shoulder. Those disgusting, vile fingers that had held the wand that had intended to kill Harry. His shoulders jerked, trying to flinch away from that awful touch, but the fingers gripped him hard, latching onto his skin. Like last time...   
  


"...did you enjoy your first time?"   
  


He snapped.   
  


Last time, he hadn't been able to fight back. At all. But this time, the Slytherin had miscalculated. There was no Harry here to restrain him, to blackmail him with. Nothing else mattered except Malfoy's words.   
  


A cry of fury he couldn't completely release slipped out of his throat and before he realized it, he had hurled himself at Malfoy, loathing the other boys touch even as his shoulder connected, hard, with the Slytherin's chest. Somewhere inside of him he knew that he was doing exactly what Malfoy wanted, that there could be no other reason for the Slytherin's approach after nearly two months, but at that moment, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except making this...*thing*... suffer.   
  


Cold hands, sharp fingernails were clutching at his skin, his robes; he barely noticed them as he tumbled off his seat, cocking his fist back for a heavy blow. Before he could land it, however, he hit the ground, his head striking the floor so hard that for a moment, he saw stars. No. Not just stars. He saw entire fucking constellations.   
  


Thoughts swam away from him; he shook his head, desperately trying to move. Last time, he had been knocked unconscious; the blonde Slytherin had sneaked up on him in the equipment shed. Not this time. No fucking way. All he had to do was move....   
  


Dazed, Ron realized that both of those cold hands were tangled in his hair he snarled, ineffectually trying to pull away. Before he could move, though, one hand slipped down to his neck, tugging his face upward, and for a moment, before the other boy forced his pale mouth down over his lips, Ron looked straight in Malfoy's eyes.   
  


Cold.   
  


Colder then his touch, colder even then his lips.   
  


This kiss was mercifully quick, but Ron knew from experience that the Slytherin's taste would remain on his lips and in his mouth for a long, long time. His own hands slipped into Malfoy's silvery-blond hair, wrenching that disgusting mouth off of his own.   
  


Malfoy was going to start paying for everything.   
  


Starting with that kiss.   
  


Almost nothing in his entire life had ever felt as good as landing that first blow; a quick, hard punch to the side of Malfoy's face that caused the other boy's head to jerk back, eyes wincing at the pain. Good. Past fucking time.   
  


A shove of his shoulder flipped the Slytherin off of him, fist ready for another blow. Then another. He wasn't just going to hurt Malfoy. He was going to fucking kill him. And he was going to enjoy every fucking moment of it...   
  


"Ron! Malfoy! What the hell are you doing! Fuck, Ron, get off of him!"   
  


Seamus's voice barely registered in his ears. It was far off, far away. Unimportant.   
  


Right now, the only thing that mattered was the figure sprawled on the floor beneath him, silvery-blond strands of hair dangling over his flushed face. For the second time in as many days, the entire focus of Ron's world had narrowed to his hand. But this time his fingers weren't intertwined with Harry's but were instead choking the air out of Malfoy's throat.   
  


//No more then what he deserves.//   
  


Those sharp-nailed hands flailed at his own throat, leaving red scratches down the exposed skin of his neck. He remembered those nails, and previous marks those nails had left on his skin. The grip on Malfoy's neck tightened.   
  


His hand and arm were straining, the muscles trembling with effort.   
  


//Oh, God. I'm...//   
  


"Ron, stop it. Get off him! Get the fuck off of him! He's turning purple...Damn it! Get the fuck off of him!!"   
  


The distant voices were accompanied by not-so distant hands clutching at his robes, his shoulders, his arms; trying to pull him off the floor. Away from the Slytherin. He fought their hands as best he could, refusing to release his grip on Malfoy. Not now. Not after all this time.   
  


"Lavender! Go find Harry or Hermione...please! Ron, come on--Snape's coming..." 

//Harry.//   
  


//Hermione.//   
  


The only two words that could possibly have restrained him echoed in his ears, and his fingers relaxed their hold on Malfoy's throat ever so slightly. A sharp tug on the neck of his robes and suddenly both Dean and Seamus were holding his arms at the elbows, turning their bodies between him and Malfoy. Shielding him or the Slytherin, he didn't know.   
  


"What the fuck did you say to him, Malfoy?"   
  


When he was angry, Seamus's Irish accent became even more pronounced. He fairly bellowed the words in Ron's ear, glaring down at the Slytherin, clutching Ron's elbow even tighter.   
  


Hoarse, gasping breaths came from the figure slowly pushing itself off the floor, and Ron could see the imprint of his hands on Malfoy's neck. He deserved it. He did. But the sound of Malfoy's throat and lungs, torturously trying to breathe air, sounded far too much like the sounds Harry had made, down in the cave.   
  


Slowly, the blonde Slytherin struggled to his feet; Seamus and Dean clutched him tighter, forcing him back a step, two. Trying to drag him away, no doubt, but it looked like more and more people were coming over, doubtless finding the brawl between Ron and Draco more interesting then their transfiguration homework, and they were hemmed in.   
  
  
  


It wasn't just Seamus and Dean; all the Gryffindors were gathered around them, all glaring at Malfoy, a couple flashing Ron thumbs-up signs. If it was just Gryffindors, it wouldn't have been so bad, even if he did hate being surrounded by people, now. But almost all of the Hufflepuffs and half of the Ravenclaws were coming over too--   
  


Movement in the corner of his eye tore his gaze away from the approaching crowd; Malfoy was back on his feet. The bastard was smoothing the rumpled fabric of his robes, brushing one of those cold hands through his hair. And smirking.   
  


He snarled, clenching his hands, which had begun to relax, back into fists. One of Seamus's hands tugged at his waist, Dean was muttering something in his ear, something about Harry, and Snape.   
  


More strands of hair fell into his eyes, obscuring his vision. With a quick shake of his head he tossed the strands out of his eyes, catching Malfoys gaze as the other boy...looked...at him.   
  


He shivered barely, as those cold gray eyes looked him, up and down. He hated those eyes. Hated them. And hated the relief that went through him when their gaze dropped, Malfoy focusing on the spot of blood smeared on his hand. Smoothly, the other boy rubbed the blood against his skin before deliberately fixing his eyes on Ron's.   
  


Cooly, Malfoy arched an eyebrow.   
  


"Enjoy yourself, Weasley?"   
  


Ron noticed with hot satisfaction that Malfoy's voice was hoarse and raspy; he, Ron, could barely understand Malfoy's words. But they were clear enough that could hear them...and to understand what they really meant. 

The adrenaline that had been humming through his entire body was dissipating, and Malfoy's words--his fucking *taunts*, because Ron knew fully well the Slytherin wasn't talking about their stupid fight--hit him like a punch to the gut. Dean and Seamus had relaxed their grip and in one quick lunge he almost freed himself from their hands, struggling roughly against them. Their voices disappeared, as did the crowd around them; the only thing that mattered was hurting Malfoy. Now, right here, when he had the chance. He might never get another one.   
  


"I'm going to kill you. Do you hear me, Malfoy? I'm going to fucking kill you!"   
  


The cold, sardonic voice cut through his rage.   
  


"You will do no such thing, Weasley."   
  


Oh, No.   
  


No. Not--   
  


Fuck.   
  


Slowly, Dean and Seamus began to relax their grip on his shoulders and waist, for good this time, he knew. Mutters arose from the Gryffindor's gathered around them, words that would have gotten more then a few Gryffindor's a few days detention, but they barely registered through the roaring in Ron's ears.   
  


He--   
  


Malfoy had--   
  


//Strategy. He did this deliberately. He threw a trap, and I fell for it, I fell for it, I fucking *fell* into it--//   
  


"Threatening the life of another student is a serious offense, Weasley, whether or not it is truly intended. Punishment for this infraction must warrant the offense...sixty points from Gryffindor. Now, accompany Mr. Malfoy to the Hospital wing, and then report to your head of house. Professor McGonnagal will determine the rest of your punishment."   
  


A hiss of anger slipped out of Dean's mouth; the sixty point-loss, no doubt. More mutters from the Gryffindors, louder this time, but Ron barely heard them. Sixty points didn't matter one fucking whit to him at the moment. Neither did McGonnagal's punishment, for that matter.   
  


//Accompany--him--to the hospital wing? No. No. I won't. I won't do it. I don't care, no way in hell am I--//   
  


"Mr. Malfoy. I believe you dropped your wand."   
  


The smirk that had been tugging at the corners of Malfoy's mouth fully formed as the Potions Professor slipped the mahogany wand back into the Slytherin's open palm.   
  


//His wand...//   
  


"No."   
  


A strangled, desperate denial escaped his throat.   
  


"No, Mr. Weasley?"   
  


He swallowed, shaking his head, eyes still fixed on the wand in Draco's hands.   
  


"No. I will not go with him to the Hospital Wing. I won't."   
  


He shivered, feeling desperately cold all of a sudden. The scorching heat that had been flooding his face and cheeks had deserted him; despite the Gryffindor's gathered around him, he was so cold...   
  


Carefully, the Slytherin moved, tucking his wand into the inside pocket of his emerald-green robes. Unwillingly, Ron found his eyes fixed on that slender hand, and the wand poised between those pale fingers. Pale fingers with cold skin, with sharp nails...   
  


Mr. Weasley. You *will* accompany Mr. Malfoy to the Infirmary. Right. Now."   
  


Dean was glaring openly at Snape now, risking a detention; a few of the other Gryffindors were shooting Ron commiserating looks, shrugging their shoulders hopelessly. The message was clear: Snape's a bastard, but there's nothing we can do.   
  


All their eyes were on him now; every Gryffindor, every Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw and Slytherin.   
  


But they didn't matter. It was Malfoy's gaze that mattered; the flash of triumph he had seen in those cold gray eyes when Snape had ordered him to accompany him to the Infirmary.   
  


The trap had been sprung.   
  


//No. I won't go. I won't. I don't care if he takes more points, I don't care if he punishes me, I don't care if he fucking *expels* me. I. am. Never. Being. Alone. With. Malfoy. Again. I wont--//   
  


A few of the Ravenclaws had begun to drift away; obviously believing the fight to be over.   
  


"No. I don't care what you do to me, Snape, but I am not--"   
  


"RON WEASLEY!"   
  


For a moment, the voice sounded so much like his Mum that he jerked, instantly looking around for a petite, red haired women preparing to tear him limb from limb.   
  


The figure was petite, but it certainly wasn't red-headed. Bushy brown hair flew back from her face as she raced up to the dissipating crowd, books clutched in her arms.   
  


Hermione.   
  


In all his life, Ron didn't know if he'd ever been so happy to see...well, anyone. Relief coursed through him; he discovered he could breathe again. For a split second his eyes darted away from Hermione, catching a glimpse of deep frustration in Malfoy's gaze.   
  


Good.   
  
  
  


"Ron! McGonnagal wants to see you, right now!"   
  


The lie tripped easily off of Hermione's tongue, even as she stood under Snape's cold gaze. Unconsciously, Ron took a step closer to Hermione, refusing to look at Malfoy, even though he could feel the other boys gaze boring into his back.   
  


"Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley has just been involved in a violent altercation, and needs to accompany Mr. Malfoy to the Hospital Wing. Afterwards--"   
  


So far as Ron knew, Hermione hadn't interrupted Snape since Third year, when the Professor had called her a Know-It-All. Which made her next words all the more sweet.   
  


"I'm sorry, Professor Snape, but McGonnagal said she wanted to see Ron instantly, and not to stop and talk with anyone. I'm sure one of the other Prefects would be more than happy to take...Malfoy...to the hospital wing. Justin? How about you?"   
  


The muggle-born Hufflepuff looked less then thrilled at the prospect, before he could even take a step forward, Malfoy's cold drawl cut through the air.   
  


"I think not, Fletchly. I don't need *your* help to reach the infirmary."   
  


Hermione tugged on his robes, pulling at his arm, guiding him through the crowd of Gryffindors. He followed her numbly, not even thinking. Thinking seemed like a really, really bad idea right now. About Malfoy, about fighting, about Hermione...   
  


About strategy.   
  


//He laid a trap. And I feel for it. I fucking fell for it. If Hermione hadn't shown up...//   
  


No. He wouldn't think about it. Listen to Hermione. He would actually listen to Hermione. He actually preferred listening to Hermione then hearing the thoughts that were roaring through his brain.   
  


"Honestly, Ron! Do you have any idea what you were doing? Fighting, in the Great Hall! Right in front of a teacher? Have you lost your mind? I can't believe--"   
  


//He laid a trap. And I fell for it. He laid a trap, and I fell for it. He laid a trap, and I fell for it...//   
  


"Do you have any idea how much trouble you're going to be in? Why on earth do you allow him to provoke you like that? What did he say--"   
  


Barely acknowledged under his thoughts and the endless stream of Hermione's scolding words, one prevailing thought.   
  


//I can't go on like this. I can't. I. Have. To. Do. Something.//   
  


//I can't go on like this.//   
  


"Well?"   
  


Hermione's voice slapped him back to reality; they were standing in front of Professor McGonnagal's office, but neither made a move to knock on the door. Dark brown eyes gazed up into his.   
  


"What did he say that set you off?"   
  


//Did you enjoy?--//   
  


"He--"   
  


Before the next words--he had no idea what they were going to be--slipped out of his mouth, the door to Professor McGonnagal's office jerked open. The tall, dark haired figure in the doorway froze, green eyes flickering from him to Hermione, then back again.   
  


//Harry?//   
  
  
  
  
  


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Ugh. I never imagined it would take me almost a month to post the next chapter. (Stupid Best Buy, Stupid Service Plan, Stupid broken modem.) Anyway, I seem to be on a writing kick now that I've finally gotten my laptop back, and I am aware that most of this chapter is basically old information from a new POV, so I should be updating really soon. Anyway, review, if you like.   
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  



	7. Decisions

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: Potter Harry own not do I. (Place disclaimer in front of a mirror.)   
  


Rating: R   
  


Summary: Chapter 7. Ah. The obligatory "making-out in the deserted classroom" scene. Although this one may be a little unusual, come to that...   
  
  
  
  
  


***************************************************   
  
  
  


Ron wouldn't look him in the eye.   
  


The red-headed boy was looking everywhere *but* at him. The floor, the ceiling, McGonnagal's desk. He even pretended to be fascinated by the titles of the ancient Transfiguration texts lining the bookcases.   
  


Mostly though, Ron just stared determinedly at his sneakers, refusing to meet McGonnagal's gaze. A tactic that was coming precariously close to pissing the Gryffindor Head of House off. Especially as the story Hermione was recounting began to unfold.   
  


"...and there was a huge crowd of students in the Great Hall, as well as Professor Snape, and Dean and Seamus were holding Ron back; they each had grabbed one of his arms to keep him from attacking Malfoy--"   
  


A flinch, barely noticeable, ran through the slender figure next to him as Ron stared fixedly at his shoes. Harry felt his own eyes widen; a sick feeling hit him as his stomach twisted at Hermione's words.   
  


//Oh, God. Not...that fucking Bastard, I'll--.//   
  


//I left Ron. Alone. In the Great Hall. I left him...//   
  


"...and then Professor Snape..."   
  


Hermione continued to speak but Harry ignored her, fixing his gaze on the side of Ron's face. A slow flush of embarrassment or anger was spreading through the other boy's freckled cheeks, turning the tips of his ears pink. Ron was biting his lip, strands of red-hair falling down over his eyes, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the wooden floor. Very determinedly not looking at Harry. Refusing to look at him.   
  


//Ron? What did he--?//   
  
  
  


"Enough."   
  


The sound of McGonnagal's voice caused even Hermione to wince slightly; rarely had any of them heard it so sharp. Next to him, Harry heard Ron release a long, heavy sigh.   
  


"Explain yourself, Mr. Weasley."   
  


The tips of Ron's ears were scarlet now, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans. The toe of his foot continued to explore the pattern of Professor McGonnagal's rug. Still, he refused to look up, mumbling the words into his chest.   
  


"It...wasn't a big deal, Professor. Malfoy...He...Harry and I were--I was just playing chess, and then...he--Malfoy--came over and said s-stuff. And we...fought. I won. That's all."   
  


This inarticulate arguement did little to diminish the exasperation in McGonnagal's tone.   
  


"Mr. Weasley. May I remind you that you are a *sixth* year student? Fist fights, while not condoned at any time at Hogwarts, are certainly more understandeable between first and second year students. You are supposed to set an example, especially for the younger Gryffindors. And yet, the instant you and Mr. Malfoy come in contact to each other, you're ready to kill each other! Would you be so kind as to explain *why?*"   
  


Hermione's bright brown eyes were fixed on Ron, as were McGonnagal's. Hermione's eyes were sympathetic, McGonnagal's demanding answers, but Ron continued to stare at the floor.   
  


"I--don't...We never got on, that's all."   
  


Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione roll her eyes as Ron made the Understatement of the Decade. Even the corners of McGonnagal's mouth twitched, for a second, in a semblance of a smile. But Harry had never felt less like smiling in his life.   
  


That bastard. That evil, vile, disgusting little Slytherin...   
  


//I left him. Fuck. What would have happened if Hermione--//   
  


As visciously as he could Harry surpressed the thought, feeling a fine flush of anger rising in his cheeks, a low ringing in his ears. Unconsciously, he realized he was clenching his fists and had to make an effort to release them.   
  


Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.   
  


"Mr. Weasley. Look at me."   
  


Slowly, Ron raised his head until his gaze settled on some invisible target on Professor McGonnagal's desk. His eyes blinked quickly, and Harry had the sickening sensation that Ron was fighting back tears.   
  


It wasn't fair. Malfoy had already made Ron cry once, and that one time was more than enough to make Harry hate the Slytherin for all eternity. And beyond.   
  


//My fault. I shouldn't have left him. I shouldn't have left him alone. I shouldn't--//   
  


"I will discuss this situation with the head of Slytherin house, Professor Snape. I am sure that his reccomended punishment would be to suspend you from the Gryffindor quidditch team. I can assure you, however, that that is *not* going to happen."   
  


"I will inform you of the extent of your punishment tomorrow, after meeting with Professor Snape. But tonight, I wish to impart upon you the seriousness of your actions. You are almost an adult now, and you need to determine whether you are willing to suffer the consequences of your actions before you make a decision. And for Merlin's sake, Mr. Weasley, don't allow your temper to make your decisions for you! "   
  


Dissapointment warred with affection in their professor's voice, making her voice gruff. It was a far more gentle tone then Harry had anticipated, and for a moment he wondered if she could see the weariness that seemed to hang on Ron's shoulders.   
  


"Go back to the dorms and get some sleep. You look like you could use a good night's rest."   
  


Hermione's eyes were on Ron also, obviously concurring with Professor McGonnagal's diagnosis. Shifting the load of books in her arms, Hermione stepped closer to Ron, obviously preparing to leave the office.   
  


Slowly, Ron nodded at McGonnagal's words, turning to the door. Hands still buried in his pockets, shoes still dragging on the carpet.   
  


Still not looking Harry in the eye.   
  


Right. Fuck this. He wasn't letting Ron get away from him. Not like this.   
  


"Professor? May I leave too? I think we pretty much covered the strategy for our game against Slytherin."   
  


His head of house nodded almost impatiently, adjusting her glasses and turning to a stack of parchment on her desk. Even before she gave her permission, Harry began to move, turning to the doorway to follow Hermione and Ron. As he shut the door behind him, he heard Hermione, questioning Ron.   
  


"Ron? Are you feeling well? Maybe we should take you to the infirmary. Harry, do you--"   
  


The red head heaved an exhausted breath before half-leaning, half-falling against the stone wall of the hallway, tilting his head up and staring blankly at the ceiling.   
  


"Hermione, please."   
  


He regretted the sharp edge to his tone the instant the words left his mouth. Breathing carefully, he forced himself to close his eyes, running a hand distractedly through his hair, repeating the litany to himself.   
  


//She doesn't know. She doesn't know. She doesn't know. She doesn't know. She doesn't--//   
  


"I don't want to go the hospital wing."   
  


They were the first words Ron had spoken since the Great Hall that Professor McGonnagal hadn't had to drag out of him. Low and soft, barely distinguishable from his breathing.   
  


"I...not the hospital wing. Not the infirmary."   
  


"But Ron, what if you're hurt?"   
  


Blue eyes still fixed on the ceiling, the other boy shrugged.   
  


"I'm...fine. It doesn't matter..."   
  


"Doesn't matter? Ron, what if--"   
  


"Hermione? Could I talk to Ron, for a minute? Meet you back in the Common Room?"   
  


For a second, his best friend looked like he'd slapped her, a flash of hurt in her eyes that was gone almost instantly. Then Hermione nodded, worried eyes flickering back and forth between him and Ron.   
  


"Sure. Of course. Right. I'll see you both back in the Common Room. Soon?"   
  


Even though she directed the question at Ron, Harry was the one who nodded, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he did so. Ron ignored them both, continuing to stare at the ceiling.   
  


"Soon. I promise."   
  


Hermione nodded again, biting her lip before turning away and walking quickly down the hall, the sound of her hard-soled shoes making hard little raps on the stone floor.   
  


He waited until the sound of her shoes had completely died away before turning back and fully fixing his gaze on the red-haired boy leaning against the wall. With his eyes closed and hands shoved in his pockets, most people would have taken Ron's position as one of relaxation. But if someone looked closer, they would see the tension strung through the tall frame, the tightness of the jaw, the way the muscles in Ron's lower arms clenched.   
  


Hermione had seen, Harry knew. That was why she had been so reluctant to leave, had been so insistent they take him to the hospital wing. She obviously knew that something was seriously wrong with Ron.   
  


She just didn't know *why.*   
  


"Ron."   
  


If his face tilted upwards a little bit more, that was Ron's only reaction.   
  


"Ron?"   
  


Blue eyes blinked open, but they still wouldn't look at him.   
  


Harry bit his lip, hard, running a hand distractedly through his already messy hair. Images and ideas that made him sick to his stomach kept flashing through his brain.   
  


"Ron?"   
  


Nothing.   
  


//What happened to you?//   
  


Harry's patience broke. The frustration and anxiety he had barely been keeping at bay during the meeting in McGonnagal's office swept over him and, before he knew it, he had grasped Ron's arm, tugging him roughly away from the wall.   
  


Anger, frustration, guilt. All of those feeling sang through his nerves, making his breath short. He wanted...needed to see Ron's eyes. Now. He needed to know what had happened, what he had *allowed* to happen, when he had left. He needed to know what Malfoy had done.   
  


//Damn it Ron, look at me!//   
  


The other boy didn't protest at all until Harry led them both into an empty classroom, kicking the door shut, Ron's arm still clutched in his grip.   
  


"Harry--"   
  


Ron's arm twisted in his grip, trying to pull away; for a second, Harry clutched tighter before the full realization of what he was doing hit him, and he released the other boy instantly.   
  


//My God. What am I doing? I just dragged him in here and--//   
  


All the strength seemed to have run out of Ron's legs; he collasped, sitting on top of the closest table, head in his hands, fingers tangled in his hair.   
  


Not looking at Harry.   
  


Hot, sick shame flooded over him, guilt choking him.   
  


Moving slowly, so as not to startle his best friend, he shuffled over to the other boy, tentatively reaching out a hand and resting it on the crown of Ron's head, slipping his fingers through the soft strands of red hair.   
  


"Ron?"   
  


His word was barely above a whisper, but Ron's shoulders jerked as if Harry had had shouted at the top of his lungs.   
  


Gently, slowly, Harry placed his own hands over Ron's, disentangling the other boy's fingers first from his hair and then pulling them back, away from Ron's face.   
  


His eyes. He needed to see Ron's eyes.   
  


As gently as he could, Harry gripped Ron's wrists in his own hands, feeling the beat of the other boy's pulse against his fingers.   
  


"Ron, I'm sorry."   
  


A quick, negative shake of that bright red head; Ron resisted, pulling back as Harry brought his hands further away from his face, but Harry refused to let go of him.   
  


"Ron? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drag you in here. I'm sorry..."   
  


Finally, Harry held both of Ron's wrists firmly in his grip, clutching them against his own chest.   
  


Devoid of the protection of his hands, the only barrier separating his gaze from Rons' was the curtain of red hair that had fallen over the other boy's eyes. Gripping both wrists gently in one hand, Harry reached out and brushed the tangles of hair back, letting the tips of his fingers linger on his best friend's freckled cheek.   
  


Exhausted blue eyes met his; Harry watched as Ron blinked furiously, not quite catching the few tears that slipped out of the corners of his blue eyes.   
  


Instinctively, Harry cupped his best friend's face in his hands, his lips following the movement of the tears. Kissing the corners of Ron's eyes, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth. The taste of salt on his tongue jarred his memory but he fought it, focused entirely on the feel of Ron's skin beneath his mouth. Soft, gentle kisses on Ron's forehead, his cheeks, his chin. Anything to wipe away those tears, erase that exhausted look from Ron's face.   
  


The other boy gasped, slipping his hand upward to cup Harry's neck, tangling in the short strands of dark hair at the back of his head. The unexpected movement sent jolts of electricity down Harry's spine and his own hands slipped upward, framing Ron's face, kissing him even more furiously. Nose, brows, even his eyelids.   
  


The hand slung around his neck pulled him closer, fingers tugging and releasing at his hair. Harry shivered, feeling the warm pants of Ron's breath against his skin, nudging the boys chin upward before tilting his face and kissing him, hard, on the mouth.   
  


The fingers tangled in his hair tugged, almost to the point of pain, trying to pull him closer. Ron's other hand had gripped the collar of his robes, and was clutching them in a white-knuckled grip even as his lips moved under Harry's own.   
  


The kiss was warm and firm and sweet, and suddenly Harry shivered, slipping his fingers into Ron's hair, nudging the other boy's lips apart with his own.   
  


The hand clutching his robes tugged again, pulling him closer. Shifting his weight, Harry allowed Ron to pull him down, on top of the table.   
  


He groaned, feeling his breath slip into Ron's mouth. One of Ron's legs had curled over the back of his calf; he could hear the pounding of the other boy's heart in his own eardrums. Only his elbows held him up; his hands were exploring every inch of Ron's face and neck, his lips and tongue exploring every inch of his best friend's mouth.   
  


Finally, the other boy released the collar of his robes, free hand slipping upward, increasing the pressure on Harry's neck. Pressing into the kiss almost desperately...   
  


Something was wrong. Somewhere in the haze of his thoughts, the thousands of sensations jolting through his nerves, Harry tried to figure out what it was.   
  


Some foreign, some vile taste on Ron's lips. Cold, and bitter, and a hot spark of hate ran through his body as he realized what it was.   
  


//I shouldn't have left him//   
  


But even that thought was buried under the torrent of sensation that was currently controlling him. He didn't notice that Ron's hands had now slipped down and were clutching at his shoulders, or that his own body was trembling slightly, as if from overload. All he noticed, all that mattered, was that foreign taste on Ron's lips.   
  


Feverishly, his mouth worked until all traces of bitterness had left the other boy's mouth. The hands at his shoulders were clenching and unclenching his robes, the body beneath his panting for breath. Slowly, carefully, Harry lightened the kiss until their lips were only brushing against each other, and tried to calm the pounding in his head.   
  


And in his heart.   
  


Exhausted, Harry rested his head between Ron's shoulder and neck, listening to the sound of their ragged breathing fill the deserted classroom.   
  


"He kissed you."   
  


A slight tremor went through the other boy at his words. Instinctively, Harry moved, pressing his face closer so that his lips were barely a breath away from Ron's pulse.   
  


"Once."   
  


"How?"   
  


Slowly, Ron ground the words out, recounting everything that had happened from the moment Harry had left with Colin Creevey to when he found himself standing in front of McGonnagal's office with Hermione.   
  


Finally, the last of Ron's words faded away, and they lay there in the silence. Eyes closed, Harry lay with his head on Ron's shoulder, listening to the beat of the other boy's heart.   
  


"Did you really hit him?"   
  


Even with his eyes closed, he could see the smile forming on Ron's face, and knew it was the best question he could possibly have asked.   
  


"Hell, yes. Twice. Bastard isn't so tough without his bloody wand..."   
  


Harry smiled himself, tugging on a few loose strands of Ron's hair. He wished he could have seen that. Although, if he had been where he was supposed to be, it wouldn't have happened at all.   
  


"I'm sorry."   
  


"For what? Getting called away by McGonnagal? Leaving my side for *twenty* minutes? Or having a torrid love affair with Colin Creevey?"   
  


"WHAT?"   
  


Harry's head jerked up; Ron was grinning at him, a teasing glint in his eyes that he had seen far too little of recently.   
  


Harry growled.   
  


"I'll show you who I'm having a torrid love affair with."   
  


The other boy started to say something but Harry cut him off, relishing the kiss, the smile he could feel on Ron's lips, the way Ron's hand was clutched in his hair...   
  


Finally, Harry sensed Ron pulling away and he released the other boys mouth, resting his forehead on Ron's, feeling warm breath on his skin.   
  


"I want to kill him."   
  


Startled, Harry drew back, eyes fixed on Ron's face.   
  


Grave blue eyes he barely recognized stared calmly back at him.   
  


"You were right. It's time. Fucking *past* time."   
  


The soft, matter-of-fact words almost made Harry wince. No, not the words. The fact that 

Ron--*his* Ron--was saying them.   
  


Harry wanted nothing more than Malfoy, dead or dying, at his feet. But...   
  


"I can't take it anymore. I won't. There is no fucking way I'm spending the next year and 

a half at Hogwarts with...him...stalking me. Always looking over my shoulder, watching my back, never going anywhere alone..."   
  


Fury was starting to seep into Ron's words; the other boy was speaking in cold, clipped tones Harry had never heard Ron use before.   
  


"I want him dead, Harry."   
  


Whether it was the whisper of warm breath on his neck or the words, barely audible, that sent the chills running down his back, he didn't know.   
  


Did it matter?   
  


Malfoy deserved death. No. Malfoy deserved *worse* than death.   
  


It would be done. And soon, if everything worked out with Sirius.   
  


But he couldn't tell Ron that, not yet.   
  


"I love you."   
  


The blue eyes below him blinked, once. Twice. Three times. A minute shake of that bright head and then, slowly, a smile formed that took Harry's breath away.   
  


"You damn well better, Mate."   
  
  
  


**********************************************   
  
  
  


Yay! Things are starting to move forward! (Finally.) Sirius should appear sometime in the next few installments unless the 'Draco bug' bites again. If you enjoyed reading (or if you didn't) feel free to hit the ol' review button and tell me why.   
  



	8. Problems

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: See Chapter 1. As far as I know, they're still not mine.   
  


Summary: Ron's punishment throws a wrench into Harry's plans. Arguments ensue.   
  


Rating: R   
  


Dedication: To Mad Martha, who leaves such intriguing little cookies on the Best Mate thread that I think about them during class.   
  
  
  
  
  


**************************************************************   
  
  
  
  
  


//Soon, when this is over, I'm going to go hex Snape, I swear. No one deserves it more.//   
  


"I've just been discussing the situation with Professor Snape, and he informed me of the extent of your fight with Mr. Malfoy yesterday evening. Would you care to add anything?"   
  


Biting his lip, Ron shook his head, all too aware of Professor McGonnagal's strict gaze. Oh no. He had nothing to add, thanks. That was the exact tone his Mum liked to use to...what was the phrase? 'Give him a little more rope to hang himself with.' Thanks, but no thanks.   
  


Better not to respond. Better not to look at McGonnagal either...for some reason, this seemed to convince adults he was being cheeky. Better to simply shut up, stare at the floor and nod your head, and eventually leave with as much of your ass intact as you could.   
  


"I must say again how disappointing this is, Mr. Weasley. I understand that there is a measure of... 'bad blood' between you and Mr. Malfoy, and that, according to your story he provoked you by making unkind comments about your family and Mr. Potter, as well as Miss Granger, but I wish to emphasize to you again the severity of your actions. Your words especially are highly negative..."   
  


Good Merlin. Could he get out of here? Please? With his sanity still intact?   
  


At least his Mum kept things interesting. At least she engaged him, talked *with* him instead of *to* him. True, she yelled instead of lecturing, and her language was peppered with phrases such as--   
  


Never had this much trouble with Percy... Don't know why you do this, you know it breaks my heart... Do you ever think about these things before you do them...and, Did you really think you weren't going to get caught--   
  


While all he got from McGonnagal was the old 'dissapointed' line. Heh. Imagine that. A Hogwarts professor, dissapointed with him. Shocker, that.   
  


//Join the club, Professor McGonnagal.//   
  


By biting the inside of his cheeks he barely managed to stifle a yawn. Yawning in the middle of McGonnagal's speech, when her eyes were boring holes in his head, seemed like a really bad idea. Neither he nor Harry had gotten much sleep last night. It had been late when they had both stumbled back into the Common Room, later still when Hermione, who had been waiting for them, had finally gone up to bed, allowing them to talk, and probably around two in the morning when he had finally fallen asleep. Only to have one of those damned dreams and wake up less then three hours later. Which, of course, woke Harry up as well. Between the two of them, they might have gotten maybe seven hours of sleep. Maybe.   
  


//Something else to add to my 'After Malfoy is Dead' checklist. Number one: hex Snape. Number two: Get a good night's sleep...//   
  


"Of course, Professor Snape's reccomended punishment, that you be suspended from the Gryffindor quidditch team, is rather...extreme, especially considering the nature of the provocation. Also, considering the fact that Professor Snape already took sixty points from Gryffindor last night, and that Madam Pomfrey was able to dismiss Mr. Malfoy from the infirmary this mornin--"   
  


At this, Ron's head jerked up, eyes fixed disbelievingly on his Head of House. Malfoy was out? Already? He hadn't been able to sleep for more than a few hours last night and Malfoy was perfectly healed? Stalking the halls again?   
  


"He's *out*? Already? But..."   
  


//That's not fair!//   
  


He bit his bottom lip, visciously, barely keeping the last words in.   
  


But his tongue had already caused him enough trouble; McGonnagal's gaze had just become infinitely stricter.   
  


"I would think, Mr. Weasley, that you would be *pleased* that Mr. Malfoy was relatively unhurt, considering your punishment would have been infinitely more severe if he was seriously injured."   
  


Oh, yeah. Right. He was just fucking *thrilled* at the fact that Malfoy was going to be in Potions class this afternoon. That news had just made his bloody damn day.   
  


Eyes downcast, he nodded, half-listening to McGonnagal's renewed lecture and her details about his punishment.   
  


Detention, of course. One weeks worth. House points, of course; the sixty Snape had already taken. And...   
  


"You will be forbidden from attending any of the Hogsmeade weekends for the next two months. I assure you, Mr. Weasley, while this may seem strict, it is a far more lenient punishment than the one Professor Snape requested, especially considering the threats you directed towards Mr. Malfoy..."   
  


McGonnagal's voice trailed off, leaving an open note at the end of her words. Obviously waiting for him to say something. Anticipating his shame faced grin, waiting for him to acknowledge that he hadn't meant those words, gosh golly no, Professor McGonnagal....   
  


//I'm going to fucking kill you, Malfoy!!//   
  


But he had. He had meant those words. Malfoy knew it. Harry knew it.   
  


*He* knew it.   
  


//I want him dead, Harry.//   
  


Eyes fixed on the floor again he nodded, refusing to meet McGonnagal's gaze. It wouldn't do him any good to feign remorse; he was an absolutely terrible liar, and he knew it. For about the tenth time since he walked in to McGonnagal's office, he wished Harry was here. Well, Ron knew he was just outside the door, waiting in the hall, but Ron wanted him in *here.* Here, where he could see him, and smell him, and sense him. He bit his lip again, but this time it was to stifle a smile instead of a yawn. Remembering Harry's words from last night...   
  


Finally, he felt Professor McGonnagal turn her attention to the papers stacked neatly on her desk, and gave a mental sigh of relief. It was almost over. The air in the office had changed; McGonnagal had already mentally checked the 'Discipline Ronald Weasley' item off of her daily schedule, and was turning to the next problem on the list.   
  


"Your detention starts tonight; please report to my office at nine o clock. I have some essays I'd like you to spell-check."   
  


Mentally, he groaned, thinking that she definitely had chosen the wrong wizard for that particular task. His detention skills were definitely more geared towards cleaning, thanks to his Mum...   
  


"Thank you Mr. Weasley. You may leave now..."   
  


//And not a bloody moment too soon, Professor...//   
  


Thankful that these words didn't slip out of his mouth he hurried out of her office, wondering as he did so why Professors always thanked you before dismissing you, even if they had just spent the last twenty minutes berating and scolding and punishing you, as McGonnagal had. What the hell were they thanking you for? Making a complete arse of yourself? Standing there and allowing yourself to be chewed out? Or simply showing up? Like he had had a lot of choice about *that*, Hermione would have killed him if he'd skived off McGonnagal's summons...   
  


"What happened?"   
  


A quick glance around the hall told him that they were alone; strangely enough, no one really wanted to be near McGonnagal's office unless they had to. Hmmph. Imagine that.   
  


The voice had come from approximately the height of his knees; Harry was sitting on the floor of the hall, elbows on his knees, books scattered around his feet in a haphazard pile that would have given Hermione a fit. A few stray rays of afternoon sunlight caught in his glossy black hair, glaring on the lenses of his black-rimmed glasses and making it impossible to see his eyes.   
  


Shaking his head frustratedly, Ron walked over to the other boy and slouched beside him, tossing Harry's Divination book away without a second glance, and sat, copying Harry's position. Back against the wall, butt on the floor, elbows on his knees. Distractedly, he ran his fingers through his hair, watching the sunlight shift on Harry's face.   
  


"You know. Same old shit. 'Dissapointed...blah blah blah...letter to your parents...blah blah blah...Learn to control your temper...blah blah blah..'."   
  


A small smile tugged at the corners of Harry's mouth.   
  


"You know, they probably have a form letter for this sort of thing now. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Weasley: Your son or Daughter (insert name here) has been involved in a disciplinary action."   
  


Fighting back his own smile, Ron elbowed Harry in the side, shifting closer to the other boy until their shoulders were touching. Sighing, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of Harry breathing next to him.   
  


"Yeah, and the twins probably had a whole stack of forms themselves. No wonder Errol is so worn out, if he had to keep flying back and forth between Hogwarts and home every time they broke a rule or blew something up..."   
  


Ron was positive Harry heard the slightly wistful tone to his words, but he didn't try to stop it. Not really. He had never really thought he would miss Fred and George all too much when they left Hogwarts...what would he miss, exactly? Looking under his pillow every night for pranks? Constantly keeping a close eye on Pig, in case they decided to 'experiment' or 'play' with him, the way they had with his poor puffskein? Noogies and tickle tackles? Oh yeah, it just broke his heart that he didn't have to worry about those things at school anymore. And if, sometimes, he glanced through the Portrait Hole when someone entered, expecting to see the twins, well, what of it?   
  


Harry elbowed him back gently, scooting closer. Ron smiled, eyes still closed, breathing in the other boy's scent, feeling the sunlight on his hair. Sitting here was nice. This was nice. This was like holding hands in Potions class had been; this was like those kisses that made him feel warm and sweet and safe. Not like the kisses he and Harry had had last night; those were the kisses that made him feel like he was spinning and flying and falling all at the same time...   
  


Of course, they shouldn't be doing this right outside McGonnagal's office. Sitting this close, looking like this. But moving would break the peaceful little spell that had been woven around them.   
  


"So how much detention did you get?"   
  


Reluctantly, Ron opened his eyes, shifting his position slightly so that his butt wouldn't fall asleep.   
  


"Just one weeks worth. And you know McGonnagal; she won't give me any detention when we have practice, so that's cool."   
  


Harry arched an eyebrow at him, eyes curious.   
  


"Just one week? I thought for sure you'd get worse than that...what with Snape and all."   
  


Ron frowned, raking a hand through his hair, pointedly not looking at Harry, even though he could feel the other boy's gaze on him. He didn't really want to talk about this...he had just endured twenty minutes getting raked over the coals by McGonnagal, not to mention last night. Right now, he wanted to forget about McGonnagal, and Snape, and...him...   
  


"Well, there's that, and there's also the sixty points Snape took from Gryffindor last night. *Plus* the Hogsmeade weekends."   
  


At any other time, Harry would have picked up on his 'I-don't'really-want-to-talk-about-this' tone almost instantly. But at his last words the other boy jerked, pushing the bridge of his glasses up his nose with a cursory gesture, eyes suddenly focused sharply on Ron.   
  


"What *about* the Hogsmeade weekends?"   
  


Ron arched an eyebrow at Harry himself, curious at the boys suddenly sharp tone.   
  


Then again, maybe it wasn't such a surprise. Harry, after all, hadn't gotten any more sleep then he had. And the boy had acting kind of weird ever since last night...well, weirder then usual. Of course, so had he.   
  


"I can't go on any Hogsmeade weekends for the next two months. That was probably McGonnagal's compromise; Snape simply wanted me suspended from the Gryffindor quidditch team. S'allright, though. I mean, if there's something I need, you or Hermione can get it for me...Harry, what the hell?"   
  


He trailed off, watching in astonishment as Harry grabbed one of his textbooks--Potions, it looked like--and slammed it down on the floor, muttering obscenities under his breath.   
  


"No Hogsmeade weekends? For two months? Are you positive?"   
  


For some inexplicable reason, Harry's words were full of frustration and anger; Ron felt his own temper rising at Harry's tone. It was fucking stupid, yeah; neither of them had been sleeping well, Harry was still on edge about what had happened to him last night, and so was he, and the last thing they needed was a fight...but why then was Harry talking to him like *that?*   
  


"Yeah. Pretty fucking positive. McGonnagal told me herself, Mate."   
  


The words came out deceptively light, with a bit of a bite in them, but Harry still didn't recognize the tone.   
  


"Fuck. Why didn't you do something? You know, protest, or ask for a different punishment?"   
  


Disbelieving what he was hearing, Ron's eyes widened. Protest, argue with McGonnagal? About a punishment? Did he look that stupid?   
  


"Mate, have you gone nutters? Argue with McGonnagal? I'd just as soon arm-wrestle Hagrid."   
  


Normally, any mention of the Hogwarts Groundskeeper would have brought at least a ghost of a smile to Harry's face, but now he ignored the words, running his fingers distractedly through his hair. Straining, Ron caught some of his mutterings.   
  


"Ok...we have to get to Hogsmeade. I sent that letter...supposed to meet us in about two weeks...need to get Ron out of Hogwarts..."   
  


Ron blinked, feeling that spark of anger begin to bloom in his chest. Was Harry keeping secrets from him? *Who* exactly, were they supposed to meet in Hogsmeade? And why in the hell hadn't Harry told him?   
  


"Errr, Harry...is there anything you'd like to tell me?"   
  


This time the other boy caught his accusatory tone; he felt the other boy's back straighten, shoulder bumping accidentally against his own.   
  


"Yeah, actually. I had an idea."   
  


//An idea? About...//   
  


//I want him dead, Harry.//   
  


He'd said the words. And he'd meant them.   
  


Blue eyes widening, anger forgotten, Ron fixed his eyes on the other boy, leaning closer. 

"An idea? What...what kind of idea?"   
  


Green eyes flickered back and forth, surveying the deserted hall. Then Harry bit his lip, shaking his head.   
  


"Not here. Not in front of McGonnagal's office. Come on."   
  


With that Harry got to his feet, kicking a few books out of the way before turning and holding his hands out to Ron.   
  


He slipped his own hands into Harry's, feeling the other boy tug him to his feet easily. For an instant, the fingers around his squeezed, and he squeezed back, feeling a little more of the anger drain away. Whatever else, Ron did love him. That would never change.   
  


And Harry loved *him.* He knew that, had known it for years, but had heard the actual words last night. "I love you." So far as Ron knew, Harry had never said those words to anyone before. 

Trying to wipe off that stupid, silly smile he knew was on his face, Ron watched as Harry gathered his books before they set off down the hall, away from McGonnagal's office.   
  


"I sent a letter to Sirius."   
  


"WHAT!"   
  


He jerked away from Harry, turning stunned blue eyes on his best friend.   
  


//No. He wouldn't do that. I told him not to. I told him I didn't want anyone to know. He knows that, he knows...//   
  


Biting his lip, hard, Ron glared furiously at the boy he loved.   
  


"And what did exactly did you tell him, *Mate?*"   
  


"Ron--"   
  


Harry turned to him, shifting his books to one hand and reaching for Ron with the other, but Ron batted his hand away, feeling his stomach twist at Harry's words. 'I sent a letter to Sirius.' No. He'd told him...   
  


"Ron!"   
  


Harry wasn't a seeker for nothing; he'd managed to grab Ron's robes after all, fingers clenched around the Gryffindor crest. Not caring if there was anyone else watching them, the black haired boy tugged him closer. Carelessly, Harry dropped his books, spilling them in a pile around their feet, cupping Ron's chin with his free hand. Green eyes looked sternly into his; he couldn't look away.   
  


"I didn't tell him. You know that, you know I wouldn't. Right? I didn't tell him. I swear to you, I didn't tell him."   
  


The pad of Harry's thumb was brushing the bottom of his lower lip, his green eyes sincere. Feeling his heartbeat slowly return to normal Ron nodded, relaxing by degrees at Harry's words. Sirius didn't know. Hermione didn't know. Only three people knew. Good.   
  


"I didn't tell him. I didn't mention anything. I simply asked him to meet us in Hogsmeade next time."   
  


Impatiently Ron shook his head, feeling Harry's fingers slip downwards, from his chin to his shoulder.   
  


"Why? Why did you mail Sirius? Why do you want to meet with him?"   
  


Reluctantly, Harry released the fabric of his robes, running his fingers distractedly through his already messy dark hair.   
  


"I just want to...talk with him. Both of us. I have an idea...I'm not sure, but it might work. If it does, it would be perfect...we could get rid of Malfoy, and no one would ever know it was us, *or* Sirius...but we'd need his help; we can't do it on our own..."   
  


"What idea?"   
  


For a long time, Harry's eyes simply gazed into his, worry and sadness playing across his face. Finally he reached up, tugging Ron's head down to his lips, whispering the words in his ear.   
  


**********************************************************   
  
  
  


What's Harry's idea? Tune in next week to find out. Oh, and Review, if you want to.   
  



	9. Arguments

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: See chapter 1.   
  


Dedication: To the people who read and don't review! (Hey, no one else dedicates anything to them.)   
  


Notes: Yes, the last chapter was the cruelest of the cruel; a short cliff-hanger. This is supposed to compensate...   
  
  
  


****************************************************************   
  
  
  


The tall red-haired boy stared at him doubtfully, clutching the folds of the invisibility cloak in his hands.   
  


"Umm, Harry...are you sure we can both fit under this? We're not eleven anymore, you know."   
  


Rummaging through his trunk, searching avidly for a clean sheet of parchment, Harry glanced up, brushing a lock of black hair out of his eyes with an absent-minded gesture.   
  


"Ron, we're not *both* going to be under the cloak. I'm going to leave with Hermione; you're going to be following us, going through the tunnel, and meeting me in Hogs--"   
  


"WHAT?"   
  


Mentally Harry swore, resisting the urge to smack himself on the forehead with the heel of his palm. *That* had been utterly brilliant. He had deliberately been neglecting to mention that little part of the plan to Ron; he'd wanted to break it to him easily, coaxing him that it was the best way. Ron had been different about a lot of things ever since...but nothing more then being alone. The red-haired boy hated it with a passion and, to be honest, Harry hated it too. Hated the ideas and images that flooded his brain even when they were separated for just a few minutes; hated the knowledge that when they were separated, it was even worse for Ron...   
  


So he'd wanted to be easy about it. And how had he told him? Blurted it out when he was searching for parchment, so he could mail the reply to Sirius. Damn.   
  


Wincing at the pain in his neck and shoulders he straightened up, looking into the other boy's slightly panicked eyes.   
  


"It's the only way. We can't both stay here and disappear without somebody suspecting something, especially if...someone...is watching us."   
  


A flush of color was starting to rise in Ron's neck and Harry stifled a sigh. He knew that sign...   
  
  
  


"So you're going off with Hermione, and I'm supposed to follow you to Hogsmeade, and meet you outside the pub. Is that it?"   
  


Despite the fact that he was over six feet tall and male, Ron bore at that moment a startling resemblance to Molly Weasley when she was 'in a snit,' as Fred and George put it.   
  


"Ron..."   
  


"'Cause I think that sounds like a bloody *brilliant* idea. We'll just completely forget what happened the last time one of us snuck into Hogsmeade wearing the cloak, the fact that I'm not nearly as used to wearing it as you are, the whole--"   
  


"RON!"   
  


His voice was one step below a full fledged shout; at the last moment he restrained it, barely. Wiping dust off his fingers he breathed, forcing his voice to stay calm.   
  


It was easier when he remembered *why* Ron was reacting so negatively to using the invisibility cloak and traveling to Hogsmeade by himself. And none of the reasons the other boy had listed were it; the truth of the matter was, Ron didn't want to be alone. Ever. Especially not in a dark tunnel, with no one knowing where he was...   
  


All too aware of the blue eyes glaring at him, Harry raked a hand through his hair, accidentally streaking smears of gray dust through the strands.   
  


"Ron, there's no other way to do it. I honestly can't think of a better one. Do you think I *want* to do it this way? Look, we'll put tracking spells on each others wands, so that we'll know where the other one is at all times. Okay?"   
  


The tall boy ignored his words, pointedly not looking at him.   
  


Moving deliberately, allowing Ron to hear his footsteps, Harry walked over to the other boy, rubbing dust on the legs of his jeans.   
  


Arms crossed over his chest, blue eyes trained on the opposite side of the room, Ron continued to ignore him, even as he stood less then a hands-width away. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach out and grasp the other boy's shoulders, cup his chin, but Harry restrained them. He could tell, by the set of the other boy's shoulders, the way his hands were clenched, that he didn't want to be touched.   
  


//Fuck you, Malfoy.//   
  


For an absurd amount of time they simply stood there; Ron refusing to look at Harry, Harry refusing to look away from Ron.   
  


Just when he was wondering whether they were going to be standing there until the other boys came up to bed, Ron shook his head slightly, his bright hair glinting, even in the candlelight.   
  


"I don't want to do it this way."   
  


Fighting to keep his tone normal, Harry dragged the words out.   
  


"There isn't any other way. I don't want to do this, you don't want to do this, but it's the only way. We have to meet Sirius in Hogsmeade, and we have to get you to Hogsmeade."   
  


It was times like this that he really hated the fact that Ron was taller then him. Normally, he didn't care...he actually liked it. And ever since his growth, last year, he was almost--almost--as tall as the other boy. But now, with the red-head's eyes shooting sparks down at him, Harry wished he could be taller then the other boy, just once.   
  


"I don't want to go to Hogsmeade by myself in your invisibility cloak!"   
  


"Well, then maybe you shouldn't have gotten in that fight with Malfoy!"   
  


//Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.//   
  


His eyes widened in horror the instant the words sounded in his ears. Had he said that? Had he *really?*   
  


Blindly, he reached out for the other boy, not caring right now if Ron wanted to be touched, knowing only that *he* needed to touch him...   
  


And was utterly unsurprised when Ron's hands batted him away, the other boy moving quickly out of the reach of Harry's grasp, his hoarse breath echoing loudly in the room.   
  


//Fuck.//   
  


Rubbing his temples, Harry's eyes slipped shut, fighting back the frustration welling up inside of him. He hated this. Every single moment of it. He hated fighting with Ron, hated Ron shoving him away, hated the yelling, the entire reason they were having this argument. But most of all, he hated hurting Ron. He *loved* Ron. More then anything else on the face of the earth. And beyond.   
  


Pressure coursed between his temples; he could feel a headache coming on.   
  


"Ron..."   
  


The other boy stood just out of his reach, his back to Harry, one hand gripping the post of Neville's bed, the other running restlessly through his bright red locks.   
  


"You're right."   
  


The words were whisper soft; Harry had to strain to hear them. Disbelieving, he cocked his head towards the other figure, but Ron didn't turn.   
  


"You're right. Of course. I shouldn't have fought with Malfoy. And I know it...I *knew* it. Even when it was happening, when he was saying those things..."   
  


The fingers clenched around the bed post gripped tighter; a slight shudder, barely noticeable, ran through Ron's shoulders.   
  


"Even when he was saying those things, I knew what he was doing. Baiting me. Fuc--Messing with me, wanting me to go after him. And I fell for it anyway. I just couldn't help it..."   
  


With a supreme effort, the other boy released the bedpost and turned to face him, a small, bitter smile that under normal circumstances would never have belonged on Ron's face tugging at his lips.   
  


"Can't help but appreciate the irony, eh? The one thing I've ever been really good at it is strategy, but Malfoy is the one who tricked *me* into getting myself in trouble, and you're the one who came up with the plan to get rid of Malfoy. Maybe I should give up playing chess and just become a fucking pawn, like in real life."   
  


Eyes closed, the other boy leaned back against the bedpost, looking impossibly drained. The flush of anger had faded from his face, leaving him pale and exhausted. There was a self-loathing Harry had never imagined Ron was capable of coloring his best friends words.   
  


Again, his fingers reached out, unconsciously wanting to comfort the other boy and again Harry held them back, jamming his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans.   
  


"You're *not* a pawn, Ron. You know that."   
  


Slowly, Ron's dark blue eyes slipped open, surveying him without a touch of humor.   
  


"Really? Then why does...why does he keep playing with me, Harry? Directing my movements? And why do you keep--"   
  


But Ron cut himself off with an abrupt shake of his head, turning away.   
  


"Never mind. Never mind. Fine. I'll wear the invisibility cloak; I'll meet you by the pub; we'll meet Sirius, Malfoy will pay, it'll all go swimmingly..."   
  


"No. Wait. What were you going to say?"   
  


"Nothing."   
  


"Like Hell. What were you going to say?"   
  


Mimicking Harry's actions of only a few moments before Ron closed his eyes, rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers, as if warding off a headache. But Ron didn't get headaches. Did he?   
  


"I told you, its nothing."   
  


But Ron wasn't looking at him.   
  


"Ron--"   
  


"Just drop it, ok? Forget it; it's nothing, it doesn't matter. Just. Forget. It. Ok? Please?"   
  


Doubt nagged at him, fear and anxiety coursing through his blood. His lips parted, wanting to know, *needing* to know what Ron had meant--   
  


And then he shut his mouth without a word, unable to resist the pleading tone in that voice.   
  


"All right."   
  


His quiet words worked; Ron met his eyes again, a tired but genuine smile on his lips.   
  


"Thanks."   
  


Silence descended; Harry, unsure of what to do, began rummaging through his trunk again, piling his possessions on the floor until finally recovering some parchment at the very bottom. Ron simply sat, moving over to his own bed, and watched Harry scribble his reply to Sirius.   
  


A strain of laughter drifted up from the Common Room, and for a moment Harry found himself wishing fiercely that he and Ron were down there, laughing or studying or playing chess, anything but arguing and yelling and plotting the death of Draco Malfoy.   
  


It wasn't fair.   
  


Resolutely pushing the thoughts out of his head, Harry finished the letter, absent-mindedly shoving it in his back pocket. He would have to go up to the Owlery tonight.   
  


"Harry?"   
  


The tentative whisper in that voice broke his heart, just a little.   
  


Understanding the unspoken request in his name he joined the other boy on Ron's bed, feeling the bed creak slightly under his weight as he sat. The boy next to him sighed, tugging him closer, resting his cheek on the top of Harry's hair.   
  


"I'm sorry."   
  


Harry shook his head, fingers tracing up the sleeve of Ron's robes.   
  


"Don't be. It's my fault...I can't blame you for fighting Malfoy; If I'd been there, I'd have killed him."   
  


"I know."   
  


The words sent gusts of warm breath through his hair and Harry shivered, hands examining the other boy's elbow. The robes were three time hand-me-downs, the fabric dangerously thin where Harry's fingers rubbed against the black cloth.   
  


"We're not going to tell Sirius...anything...are we?"   
  


Carefully, hands still moving on Ron's arm, Harry moved until he could look into Ron's worried eyes. A flicker of shame lingered in them that the other boy couldn't quite hide. 

"No more then we have to. I swear."   
  


Ron nodded silently, blue eyes dark.   
  


"Good. I just...I just want this to be over. I want Malfoy gone, life to be normal...well, as normal as it can. And us to be...well, us."   
  


Impulsively, he leaned forward, capturing Ron's lips in a quick kiss. Feeling the other boy's heart beat against his own.   
  


"It will be over soon. Sirius will help us; it will work. It will."   
  
  
  


__________________________________________________________________ 

__________________________________________________________________   
  
  
  
  
  


Harry shivered, clutching his coat shut and stamping his feet in an awkward rythem, trying in vain to keep warm.   
  


He hated being cold.   
  


Hated it. Hated it. Hated it.   
  


//Come on, Ron. Come on. Come on...//   
  


He'd left the other boy less then two hours before in the Gryffindor Common Room, whispering a few words in his best friend's ear before reluctantly pulling away, following Hermione out of the Portrait Hole.   
  


Anxiety and anticipation gnawed at him, making the time tick by incredibly slowly. He wanted to see Sirius desperately, to actually set eyes on his Godfather, make sure he was ok. Even more, though, he wanted to set eyes on Ron, and make sure he was all right.   
  


Well, as all right as Ron could be.   
  


It had only been two hours, and the tracking charm was working fine. Ron was fine. Of course he was. No one knew about the tunnel behind the Hump-backed Witch besides him, Hermione, Ron and the Weasley twins. No one.   
  


A couple of third year Hufflepuffs walked out of the Three Broomsticks, talking excitedly in giggles and whispers. One of them, a short, brown haired boy, recognized Harry and pointed at his forehead, nudging the blonde boy next to him with his elbow, eliciting gasps from both of them. The door swung slowly shut behind them, a gust of warm air scented with smoke and butterbeer wafting under Harry's nose.   
  


"Wow. It's the famous Harry Potter! Can I have your autograph?"   
  


Maintaining his composure in front of the Hufflepuffs took nearly every ounce of control Harry possessed when he felt the teasing whisper of breath on his neck. The desire to reach out and rip off the invisibility cloak and shake the other boy fiercely warred with the urge to rip the invisibility cloak off and kiss him senseless. Irritation won out over relief and he whispered back, barely moving his lips in response:   
  


"Where the hell have you *been* Ron?"   
  


The whisper of the invisibility cloak shifted across the skin near his ear, he could barely feel Ron's warm breath on his ear.   
  


"Took me a while to get out of the Common Room with no one noticing. There are too many first and second years, I swear..."   
  


The two little boys had begun to drift away, evidently having decided that The Boy Who Lived was insane for standing outside on such a bitterly cold day.   
  


"Come on, let's get to the Shack..."   
  


The street was almost completely deserted; everyone sane was inside the shops or the pubs, where it was warm. Short gusts of cold icy wind caught in Harry's hair, stinging his face. If he listened closely, he could hear the wind catching the folds of the invisibility cloak and the heavier tread of Ron's footsteps.   
  


Silently, they trudged up the hill to the Shrieking Shack, the frozen grass crunching underneath their feet. Cupping his hands around his wand, Harry squinted against the wind, surveying the boarded up building in front of him. Sirius had told him about the secret entrance in his last letter; he just had to find the correct board...   
  


"Harry, could you hurry the hell up? I'm freezing my arse off..."   
  


Even over the howl of the wind, he could hear Ron's teeth chattering as the boy spoke to him through the invisibility cloak.   
  


"Really? 'Cause I'm all warm and toasty...just a minute, I need to find the right board..."   
  


A snort of amusement sounded from the supposedly empty space next to him but Harry ignored it, eyes scanning the wall closely.   
  


There.   
  


Gray, weather-beaten boards, all identical, except for the small splintered one with a tiny carving of a tree in the corner. Harry tapped it with his wand.   
  


"Alohamora."   
  


A rumbling, groaning sound, the screech of wood rubbing against wood, and a jagged outline of a doorway appeared in the northern wall of the Shack.   
  


Bracing both hands against the wall Harry shoved, digging his feet into the frozen ground and pushed with all his strength, but the wall refused to budge.   
  


Then an invisible hand brushed over his, and he sensed Ron's form next to his, throwing his weight against the wall. Finally, with the groan of invisible hinges, the door yielded and both Harry and Ron stumbled into the Shrieking Shack.   
  


His glasses fogged up instantly; Harry tugged them off, wiping the moisture off with the corner of his coat. A blurry, indistinct form topped with bright red hair materialized out of thin air in front of him, the silvery length of the invisibility cloak looped around his arm.   
  


"Blimey, its fucking *freezing* out there...Oh, hullo Sirius."   
  


Shoving the glasses haphazardly on his face Harry turned, following the direction of Ron's gaze.   
  


Sirius.   
  


His godfather smiled at him, sitting at the same table where he and Ron and Harry had discussed Ron's quidditch tryouts, so very long ago.   
  


"Harry..."   
  


The older man stood, tugging Harry into a firm hug. He pressed into it, breathing in Sirius's scent of wood and tobacco...and predictably, a bit of dog.   
  


"God, I'm glad you're ok...you had me worried, what with your letter...what is it? What do you need?"   
  


Reluctantly Harry pulled away, stepping out of Sirius's grasp. The darkness that was always there, in his guardian's eyes...   
  


Was what he was asking going to add to it?   
  


Shaking his head, Harry glanced at Ron, who hadn't moved except to close the door and was now staring at Harry and Sirius with a strangely inscrutable expression on his face.   
  


Harry gestured, nodding his head at the two empty chairs at the table, indicating that he and Ron should sit. For a moment he thought the other boy was going to object...and then he walked slowly over to the chair furthest away from Sirius, draping the invisibility cloak over the back of it before sitting.   
  


Harry collapsed in his own chair, eyes flickering back and forth between Ron and Sirius. The red-haired boy stared stonily at the scarred table top, refusing to look at either of them; Sirius glanced at Ron, arching an eyebrow at Harry in a silent query.   
  


The rough sound of Sirius clearing his throat cut through the silence; his godfather turned to him, eyes dark.   
  


"Well, I know you wanted to meet with me for a reason, Harry, Ron...care to tell me what it is?"   
  


Ron muttered something under his breath, fingers tracing through the dust on the old wood.   
  


A small crease appeared in Sirius's already lined face, brow furrowing. Unlike Ron, Sirius's face was, more often then not, inscrutable, unreadable. Especially his eyes.   
  


"I didn't quite catch that, Ron."   
  


Harry saw--barely--the brief glance Ron sent him, just glimpsed under the other boys lashes. The message was clear: this was *your* plan, Sirius is *your* Godfather, *you* tell him. Harry opened his mouth...and then closed it. Sirius's eyes watched him curiously, and Harry turned away, looking but not seeing the wooden tabletop in front of him.   
  


He wanted this. He did. But actually saying the words aloud...   
  


Whispering the words in Ron's ear, safe in the depths of Hogwarts, was different, somehow. Adding Sirius created a gravity to the situation that he hadn't realized until just now. He and Ron had been plotting ways to get Malfoy expelled ever since First Year, but it was always just the two of them. But this wasn't just expulsion, and it wasn't just him and Ron. This was, in effect, murder. They were planning to destroy someone. Someone who undoubtedly deserved it, but...   
  


The wind howled outside, the house creaking ominously around them, and for a moment Harry wondered what his parents would think if they could see him now.   
  


It wasn't until Ron spoke that he was able to drag his eyes away from the table. Amazed, he watched as the other boy sat back, blue eyes gazing steaily in to Sirius's dark ones. Incredulous as the words fell from Ron's mouth in a perfectly conversational tone.   
  


"We need you to help us arrange it so that Draco Malfoy is given the Dementor's Kiss."   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*********************************************************   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Ah. The plot moveth fowardeth. What dost thou think? Nasty little shock for Draco, ay? 

Normally, I never update this fast. Blame my sister, the weather, the impending test I have and my procrastinating nature when it comes to studying. Dunno when the next update is coming; school is starting to get demanding.   
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	10. Surprises

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer, Rating, etc...see Chapter 1.   
  


Summary: Sirius demands an explanation; Ron gets angry when Harry does the one thing he swore he would never do...   
  
  
  


*******************************************************   
  
  
  


Sirius used to terrify me.   
  


Of course, the fact that the first time I ever met him he had just slashed through my bed curtains and was wielding a long, sharp knife may have had a little something to do with it.   
  


The 'Grim' and Whomping Willow Experience didn't exactly improve things. It's a bit hard to trust someone who's just broken your bloody leg. Even after we knew that he was innocent, that it had been that damn rat the entire time...well, it wasn't very Gryffindorish of me, but he still scared me.   
  


It was his eyes. I still remember my first glimpse of them, peering at me through the ragged velvet of my slashed curtains. Dark eyes, bloodshot, staring at me with pure malice. Hatred.   
  


Only it wasn't *me* he hated, *me* he wanted dead; it was the traitorous filthy rat curled up on my shoulder, wiry whiskers tickling my neck as I slept. And I screamed my fool head off, because even though I'd never seen the look before, in anyones eyes, I recognized it in his.   
  


Murder.   
  


Sirius never actually killed those Muggles...but he wanted to kill Sca...Wormtail. Wanted to, and almost did. Would have, if Harry hadn't stopped him.   
  


I'd never seen darkness like that in anyone's eyes before.   
  


I never imagined that it would only be a matter of time before that darkness appeared in mine.   
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

The cold wind stung his face the instant he scrambled outside the shack, shoving the partition of wall back into place with a dull crunch.   
  


//Shit, Ron...//   
  


His eyes roamed the bleak scape in front of him, searching for any sign of the red head. But somehow, despite his size, height, and hair color, Ron had disappeared.   
  


//I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have...//   
  


At least the other boy didn't have the invisibility cloak; Ron had been far too angry when he left to remember to grab the cloak. Which meant, if he didn't find Ron soon, the other boy was in very real danger of getting in severe trouble. Thanks to the publicity of his brawl with Draco, nearly every Hogwarts student knew about Ron's punishment, and the Slytherins would be all too happy to get the boy in even more trouble...   
  


Harry shivered, clutching his coat tighter around him. He'd left the invisibility cloak back in the Shack, along with Sirius.   
  


//Go after him, Harry. Quick, before he does something rash...//   
  


Fuck.   
  


He hadn't even told Sirius anything, not really.   
  


Strands of jet-black hair fell over his glasses and he stamped his feet against the cold, still searching for any bit of movement down at the bottom of the hill. His hands stung and he shoved them deep in his pockets, cursing the fact that he'd left his gloves and scarf inside, along with the invisibility cloak. All he had was his coat and his wand...   
  


His *wand.*   
  


Scrambling for it with numb fingers, Harry drew the length of wood from the pocket of his jeans, muttering the tracking spell he had put on Ron's wand earlier that morning. He had to find Ron and soon, before another student spotted him, before Ron went back to Hogwarts, before anything else happened...   
  


There.   
  


Of course.   
  


Stuffing the wand back in his pocket Harry set off down the hill, eyes squinted against the wind.   
  


//I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have...//   
  


Fuck.   
  


//We need you to help us arrange it so that Draco Malfoy is given the Dementor's Kiss.//   
  
  
  


Sirius's reaction had been disbelief, at first. His Godfather had stared at both of them, his eyes dark and stunned. Unable to comprehend what it was he had just heard.   
  


//Boys, I don't think you realize what it is you're asking...//   
  


And Ron's response, his voice nearly as cold as the wind outside.   
  


//Don't call us boys, Sirius. We're not boys. Not anymore.//   
  


Sirius had argued with them, fiercely. Harry hadn't quite been able to fight the spark of anger in his chest at his Godfathers words. Foolish anger; of course Sirius had doubts, questions. Sirius didn't know.   
  


//But why? Why do you want to kill Draco Malfoy? What do you both want to do this to him?//   
  


//Because he deserves it.//   
  


If Harry hadn't been able to fight his anger, Ron's temper had flared, fast and hot, the more Sirius demanded an explanation.   
  


The sound of his footsteps echoed dully on the frozen ground and he quickened his pace. Inside the windows of the stores, he caught a few glimpses of light, shadows moving on the wall. The hair on the back of his neck stood up; he was being watched. Probably by the same people who were sitting, mingling warm and safe, in the stores and pubs.   
  


//No one deserves that death.//   
  


But Sirius was wrong. Harry knew so and Ron had told him so, his voice choked with fury as he stood at the table in the Shrieking shack, hands clenched into fists. Some people did deserve that kind of death, Ron had said, because they were vampires, leeches, creatures that lived only off of other peoples pain.   
  


People like Draco Malfoy.   
  


//Do you boys realize what is you're asking me to do? Accompany you in the murder of a sixteen year old boy? Turn him over to the most twisted, devilish creatures in the wizarding world; the very creatures that nearly destroyed me? And you wont even tell me why?//   
  


Heat had been flooding Ron's face and he had argued fiercely with Harry, blue eyes blazing.   
  


//He won't help us. Fine. We'll do it some other way.//   
  


//He will help us Ron, he will. All he wants to know is why. That's all.//   
  
  
  


He and Ron had argued with each other, aware of Sirius's eyes on them. It had quickly reached an impasse: Harry insisted they needed Sirius's help; Ron refused to tell Sirius anything.   
  


//You promised me. You promised me we weren't going to tell anyone, not even Hermione, and if you break that promise--//   
  


But Ron hadn't been able to finish; he had stormed out of the shack, leaving Harry and Sirius behind.   
  


Only a few more blocks, now.   
  


He passed the pub where the two of them had met this afternoon, glancing at it out of the corner of his eye. Exhaustion ate at him, weighing down his steps.   
  


If the plan didn't work...if Sirius refused to help, if Ron refused to *allow* Sirius to help...what would they do? Corner Malfoy one night on top of the Astronomy Tower and shove him over the edge?   
  


//Not enough.//   
  


No, not enough. Malfoy deserved more, deserved the hellish, soulless existence that only the Dementor's kiss could give him. Wasn't that why he'd wanted this idea in the first place? Thought of it in the dark hours of the early morning, while Ron slept restlessly in his arms and he didn't sleep at all? The perfect form of payback for the ice that had run through his blood, freezing him from the inside out?   
  


But the fear in Ron's eyes as they argued kept tugging at his memory, making him wince.   
  


He had promised not to tell. Not to tell Sirius, not to tell anyone; not unless Ron let him. And Ron had sworn...sworn on Harry's life, all those months ago, that he wouldn't tell a soul.   
  


He spotted his destination half a block ahead; his feet quickened their pace, toes numb in his shoes.   
  


The wind dropped for a moment and the low scrape of a shoe on the frozen ground met his ears. Pretending to shield his face from the wind he turned his head, searching the deserted street.   
  


Nothing.   
  


But he had heard something; he knew it. His path had hugged the walls of the Hogsmeade stores and pubs; they offered a little protection from the wind. Perhaps who ever had made that sound had ducked in an alley. Indecision tore at him. He needed to find Ron, needed to get the other boy back to Sirius where it was safe...   
  


But who was following him? And why?   
  
  
  


Harry shook his head, clenching his fingers tightly around his wand. If he was being followed by...anyone...he needed to know.   
  


Quickly, masking his footfalls as best as he could, Harry turned and ducked into the nearest alley, trying to survey the entire aisle at once.   
  


A few old crates and garbage cans; that was all. Mentally he swore, rubbing his scar with the tips of his fingers. He really needed to get some sleep. If he was imagining things, hearing things...   
  


Movement flickered in the corner of his eye and he spun, wand out and ready with a speed that would have made Mad Eye Moody proud.   
  


Silhouetted against the mouth of the alley, silvery-blonde hair moving slightly in the harsh wind, stood Draco Malfoy, gray eyes watching him silently, wand clutched in one gloved hand.   
  


Alone.   
  


The alley blocked the force of the biting wind; Harry could feel his ears and nose beginning to thaw, tingling as the blood rushed through them. The old familiar hate rose inside of him, temperature rising at the sight of the other boy, making his head pound. It was actually dizzying, to hate someone this much. His lips moved but his words were thick and slow.   
  


"Don't move, Malfoy."   
  


The other boy only arched an eyebrow at him, wand pointing steadily at Harry's heart. Somewhere out on the street a door slammed shut, but Malfoy didn't so much as twitch.   
  


"What's wrong, Potter? Surprised to see me?"   
  


He shifted, feeling the adrenaline surge in his body, but his own wand didn't waver even as he aimed it directly between the other boy's gray eyes.   
  


"Do you *want* to die, Malfoy?"   
  


Some inscrutable expression flashed through the other boy's eyes and then he smiled, amusement flickering over his face as he watched Harry.   
  


"You *are* more entertaining when you're not dying, Potter. Maybe I shouldn't have cursed you so quick last time...but then again, everything worked out perfectly, despite your presence. Wouldn't you agree?"   
  


He shivered, feeling his hands clench into tight fists, feeling Malfoy's drawl whisper into his brain. Desperately trying to remember Ron's words, spoken in a broken whisper not too long ago.   
  


//"Even when he was saying those things, I knew what he was doing. Baiting me. Fuc--Messing with me, wanting me to go after him. And I fell for it anyway. I just couldn't help it..."//   
  


Tamping down his rising anger, Harry forced his face to remain impassive. He would not rise to Malfoy's bait. Not now. Not yet. The time would come later...   
  


"I'm not hurt this time, Malfoy. And I'd bet that the wand that fought Voldemort to a draw could destroy yours pretty fast. If you want to live a little while longer...I'd leave. Now."   
  


The other boy didn't move, but at least Harry's words wiped that hideous smile off of his face. His eyes narrowed, watching Harry with a guarded expression on his pale face.   
  


"Confident, aren't we, Potter? You weren't so sure of yourself last time. I remember you sniveling in Weasley's arms. You almost froze to death; would have frozen to death if I hadn't reversed the spell--"   
  


Harry sneered, watching as Malfoy took another step further into the alley, doubtless trying to pin him against the back wall. If Malfoy managed to push him all the way back through the alley he was trapped; there was no way out but up...and his Firebolt was lying on his bed at Hogwarts.   
  


"Fuck you, Malfoy. *You* are the one who put that spell on me in the first place, and the only reason you reversed that spell on me was because Ron would have killed you with his bare hands if you hadn't; after what you did to him..."   
  


That awful smirk had returned; just the sight of it made Harry's blood run cold with memory. He remembered how the dizzying currents of frost had shot through him, how the ice in his blood had been like thousands, millions, billions of tiny shards, shredding him from the inside out...   
  


He wanted Malfoy dead. Soon. No, now. He wanted him dead *now*.   
  


"Do you really think Weasley could have killed me, Potter? I don't. By the time I was done with him, he was so far gone he probably didn't even know his own name. I should have left you dying on the floor."   
  


//Yes. You should have. You're going to regret that decision very, very soon.//   
  


Malfoy's black leather shoes scraped on the packed dirt of the alley as he took another step towards Harry. Harry shifted his weight, waiting, watching Malfoy's eyes. It would be in his eyes; the instant before he tried to throw the curse, it would be in his eyes...   
  


"That would have been amusing, wouldn't it, Potter? I get to fuck Weasley, and you *still* get to die."   
  


Harry watched him, wand tracking the other boy's movements. One way or another, it was going to end here...   
  


Ron's words echoed through his head, but they were losing volume with every desperate repetition. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe he had been meant to meet Malfoy here, in this deserted no-space on this bitter cold day. If Sirius would not, or could not help them...maybe this was the only way.   
  


His fingers gripped so tight on his wand that his knuckles went white.   
  


Slowly, Malfoy took another step inside the alley, green and white scarf whipping in the wind. They were less then two feet away from each other now; just enough distance for both boys to hold the other at wands-length. No dodging, no ducking, no space to run; even a misfired spell at this range could be deadly.   
  


"Malfoy, do you want to die?" 

The word tumbled out of his mouth before he even considered them, surprising him almost as much as the Slytherin. Malfoy paused; not moving, not breathing. Inscrutable gray eyes stared flatly back at him.   
  


"I'm not *going* to die, Potter. Not now."   
  


"But *you* might. Voldemort would not be pleased...but these things happen. And your poor, poor Weasley..." Draco grinned, a flash of humor flaring up in his eyes. "Well, someone would have to take care of him, wouldn't they?"   
  


Nails bit into the skin of his palms and once again, the words slipped out of before he even knew what they were.   
  


"The next time you touch him, I'm going to kill you."   
  


The chill in the wind had entered his voice; the words fell from his lips like drops of ice. Oh, but he was cold, inside and outside, and what he felt was not shame or anger or even hatred but a spark of warmth when he looked in Malfoy's eyes and spoke those words...   
  


"Not if you are already dead."   
  


The wind gusted, stealing the sound of Malfoy's words, but Harry didn't need to hear them; he could see their shape on the other boy's lips. Lips that had left bruises on Ron's skin, that had muttered the spell that had almost killed him...   
  


//He deserves this.//   
  


Harry watched Malfoy's eyes.   
  


There.   
  


Those pale lips parted but Harry beat them, the words of the spell busting in his throat--   
  


"Stop."   
  


Malfoy froze. Mouth open, the words of some Unforgiveable frozen on his tongue. Wand hand extended, the tip of it still aimed, dead center, at Harry's heart.   
  


"Go. Now."   
  


The disembodied voice did not echo in the alley, as their voices had done; Harry strained for it, looking around wildly, trying to locate its source. But there was no one else. Just the two of them in the alley.   
  


Out of the corner of his eye Harry saw it; a slight indentation on Malfoy's neck, pressing hard against the pale skin. But there was nothing--   
  


"Go."   
  


Eyes flickering rapidly up and down the alley, Malfoy began to retreat, walking backwards. Wide, stunned eyes searching. The indentation on his neck disappeared and he snarled, flinching away from what ever it was that had cornered him.   
  


Agonizingly slowly, the Slytherin retreated until he was once again sillouheted against the winter sky.   
  


"I..." Malfoy swallowed, the tide of fear slowly ebbing in his eyes. He licked his lips, fingers twitching around his wand, eyes still searching for the owner of the voice. "I'll get you, Potter. I almost killed you once; I can do it again..."   
  


And then he disapeared around the corner, robes whipping hard against the wind.   
  


Harry listened, the sound of Malfoy's footsteps dying away. If the other boy was faking...   
  


But no.   
  


The adrenaline began to wear off and Harry relaxed his grip on his wand, raking a hand through his hair. Movement rippled in front of him, and Harry watched stolidly as the air in front of him parted, replaced by his Godfather's face.   
  


"Sirius--"   
  


His dark eyes blazed.   
  


"Harry, go get Ron. Now."   
  
  
  


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Ugh. This chapter kicked my ass. I tried Sirius's POV; it didn't work. I tried Ron's (I really, really wanted to get Ron's reaction to Harry trying to tell Sirius; it didn't work. I tried Harry's...ugh. Thank heaven; it's over. Good thing too, because I have a midterm tomorrow. Well, what do you think?   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	11. Realizations

Author: Jadea   
  


Rating, Disclaimer: See Chapter 1   
  


Summary: First Ron is angry. Then he's not. Then he's amused. Then he's not.   
  


Dedication: To Shinobu. I forget to thank you for those comic translations and links every time I e-mail you, so I'll just do it now, while I'm thinking about it.   
  
  
  


*******************************************************   
  
  
  


Fiendish brown eyes danced in front of him, sparkling with an unholy light.   
  


"Sure you don't want to try our new Wheeze, little bro?"   
  


Rolling his eyes, Ron shook his head no, trying to sink into the floor and escape Fred's notice. Weasley Wizard Wheezes was busier then usual what with all the Hogwarts students on a Hogsmeade weekend, and George was up front manning the counter but Fred, evidently, still had the time and energy to torment him.   
  


"Right little bundle of joy today, aren't you? Whassa matter? Hermione chuck you for Neville?"   
  


His glares never worked on the Twins; so far as he knew, the only person who could temporarily quell his brothers with a glance was his Mum.   
  


But evidently there was something in this one that made even Fred step back a little, an uneasy smile on his face.   
  


"Hey, little brother...is something wrong? You're not in trouble or anything, are you?"   
  


Exhausted, Ron dropped his eyes, feeling the weariness to his bones. Merlin, he was so tired. Tired, but he couldn't sleep. Restless, but he couldn't move. Angry--no, furious--but he couldn't...   
  


"Course I'm in trouble, Fred. Why do you think I was pounding on your back door ten minutes ago, 'stead of coming with Hermione and Ha-- I'm not even supposed to be in Hogsmeade. If one of the other students squeals on me..."   
  


It was not a complete lie; he definitely did not want to be spotted and snitched on by some vindictive Slytherin or ass-kissing third year. Which is why, if he had been thinking clearly, he would have grabbed the invisibility cloak before storming out of the Shack.   
  


But by then he had been so angry, so utterly and totally furious, that the only thought that made sense was the one telling him to get out, get out of the Shrieking Shack *now*, before he did or said something he could never take back.   
  


Thank Merlin no one had seen him on the street. If they had, hopefully they would mistake him for Fred or George. It was highly unlikely they would mistake him for anyone else; not with his hair color. What was the old joke? 'Either his head is on fire...or he's a Weasley!' Oh, ha ha ha.   
  


Funny, that.   
  


"Well, what did you do this time, Ron?"   
  


Fred's eyes were dancing again and Ron bit back a groan. His older brother was doubtless waiting for the tale of some prank or joke or outing that he and Harry had done. He shook his head, wondering what Fred's reaction would be if he told the other boy the truth.   
  


//I'm in trouble because I choked Draco Malfoy right in the middle of the Great Hall. Oh, and Harry and I are plotting to have Dementors suck out Malfoy's soul, but we're having disagreements with his outlaw Godfather, Sirius Black. You know, the convicted murderer. Maybe you've heard of him? Anyway, we're doing all this because Malfoy attacked us about two months ago, nearly killed Harry and...hurt...me...//   
  


Right. He could tell Fred that, and then he could just sit back and watch his whole life shatter at his feet.   
  


"I got in a fight, genius. McGonnagal suspended me from Hogsmeade weekends, but I snuck down here in Harry's invisibility cloak. They also sent a letter to Mum; she sent me a damn good howler the next day. It's easier then what Snape wanted though; *he* wanted to suspend me from the Gryffindor Quidditch Team."   
  


Fred was shaking his head, staring at Ron with a look eerily reminiscent of their mothers when she was scolding him. Of course, their mother didn't spoil the whole thing by breaking out in an amused grin.   
  


"My little Ronnie is growing up. Fighting, sneaking into Hogsmeade...where does time go...why, just yesterday he was knocking out trolls..."   
  


Despite everything, he could feel a grin tugging at his mouth. Fred and George pissed him off plenty, but...   
  


It felt good. Annoying, suffocating, exasperating: but *good* to talk to his brother. To know that, for Fred and George at least, nothing had changed.   
  


The wooden door to the storage room swung open and before Ron could even think about hiding, he spied his other brother's tell tale hair.   
  


"Hey, Fred, come on...I'm getting swamped out here. I can't get the stuff off the shelves and man the register by myself. I'd ask Ron to help, but our little jail bird brother will get hauled back to the slammer if he gets caught..."   
  


George smirked at him and Ron rolled his eyes. The twins were really milking this for all it was worth. Like *they'd* never gotten into a fight or snuck into Hogsmeade or accidentally set Mum and Dad's bed on fire...   
  


"Fine. Hey, Ron...if you want to look at some of our new stuff, its on the shelf above you."   
  


Both twins winked at him simultaneously before disappearing out the door, and Ron fought the urge to throw his wand at them.   
  


His wand...   
  


The unicorn hair, willow wand was in the hip pocket of his jeans. And it was humming. Just barely.   
  


//The tracking spell.//   
  


"Fuck!"   
  


This time Ron did hurl something at the door, a stray Wheeze lying by his feet. It struck the wood and then unfolded, scattering a spray of glittering snow on the floor. Of course. Fred and George's Magic Paper Snowball! With Actual Snow! Surprise Your Friends And Professors!   
  


Fuck.   
  


He closed his eyes, resisting the urge to bang the back of his head against the wall. Hard.   
  


Harry was coming.   
  


Of course he was; the Boy Who Lived never gave up on idea once he set his mind to it. It was, so far as Ron knew, one of his most endearing and annoying traits.   
  


Wearily he rubbed his eyes with his fists, trying to fight the frustration rising inside.   
  


He did not want to see Harry. Not now. Not until he got his temper and his tongue under control.   
  


He may love the git, but he did *not* want to see him.   
  


Harry had lied.   
  


Lied to him.   
  


//He promised he wouldn't tell.//   
  


And, to be perfectly truthful, Harry hadn't. Yet. But he had been *going* to. He had *wanted* to.   
  


//He promised me he wouldn't tell.//   
  


And to tell Sirius, of all people! Harry's fucking *Godfather.* The man who had terrified him not three years ago, the man who had survived Azkhaban with his mind more or less intact. Harry loved Sirius, and Ron loved Harry...   
  


But he did not trust Sirius Black.   
  


Not with this. This was not Black's business. This was between him, Harry, and Malfoy.   
  


What if Sirius thought he was weak? Unable to protect Harry? Too easily captured, too quick to submit to Malfoy's demands?   
  


A low explosion sounded in the other room, the snapping sound of a string of firecrackers echoing in the store, followed by the jubilant sound of Fred's voice.   
  


"You ignite it, you buy it, Stebbins!"   
  


What if Sirius didn't believe them? If they told him...what would he think? About Ron...about Harry...about the two of them together? What would he want to know? Most of his memories of that night were buried deep, deep inside his brain, and Ron was grateful for that. Telling someone, telling anyone, would dredge them up, voices and images and sensations that visited him in his dreams...   
  


//What if we tell him...and he still refuses to help?//   
  


The door leading out to the store front swung open, cutting a wide scrape in the snow on the floor left by the stray Wheeze. George glanced curiously at the cold, wet substance at his feet before cocking one carrot-colored eyebrow at Ron.   
  


"You're turning me into a bloody bellhop. You've got a visitor, little brother. I'm not sure--"   
  


But whatever George was unsure of, Ron never heard because at that moment Harry slipped through the door behind George, brushing his windblown hair out of his glasses with one hand. The other, Ron noticed, was clutching his phoenix feather wand in a death grip.   
  


The other boy must have just come inside; he was shivering, his neck and hands red where the skin was bare. Evidently Harry had left his scarf and gloves along with the invisibility cloak Ron had left in the Shrieking Shack.   
  


The sight of his best friend shivering with the cold dulled his anger--for the moment--and he managed to send George a fake grin, motioning for his brother to leave.   
  


Muttering something about being a 'bloody errand-boy' George shook his head, closing the door behind him with a bit more force then necessary.   
  


"Harry, what in the he--"   
  


It was almost scary, sometimes, how fast Harry could move. One minute he was standing right in front of the door, the heel of his shoe pressing into the melting snow. The next he was on the other side of the room, clutching the collar of Ron's robes in both hands and tugging his head down for a hot, furious kiss.   
  


The wind outside had chilled Harry's lips, but the inside of his mouth was warm. Ron could smell the scent of the harsh winter wind on Harry's robes, in the dark strands of his hair. The Seeker's hands slipped beneath his robes, curling around the flaps of the hip pockets of his jeans, and tugged his entire body forward. Stumbling, Ron slipped one of his own arms around Harry's waist, the other bracing his weight against the wall.   
  


Whatever words he had been going to say forgotten, Ron opened his mouth and Harry slipped inside. He closed his eyes, shifting his body against Harrys and ignoring the voice in the back of his mind reminding him that he was supposed to be mad--no, *furious*--with Harry.   
  


Cold lips and a hot tongue were wrenched away from his mouth and he moaned softly, turning his face, seeking their return...gasping when he felt Harry's mouth on his neck with almost bruising pressure.   
  


He wound his fingers through the other boy's hair and tugged on them sharply, smiling briefly as a hiss of irritation escaped Harry's mouth, working furiously on his neck.   
  


"S-stop."   
  


Until Harry did pause, he wasn't sure whether he spoke the word aloud.   
  


Slowly, Ron pulled away, fingers still twined in Harry's hair.   
  


"I am still pissed at you, Harry."   
  


Definite irritation flashed through his best friend's green eyes before a more serious expression took its place.   
  


"You're not the only one who's hacked off, Ron. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you could have gotten in, just storming out of the Shrieking Shack like that, without the invisibility cloak? You let your temper get the better of you, again, and you could have--"   
  


Stung, Ron snatched his hand away from Harry's hair, glaring into the other boy's eyes.   
  


"Let my temper get the better of me, eh? And why do you suppose I did that, Harry? Maybe because you promised me...no, you damn well *swore* that you wouldn't tell anyone, and you were about to tell Sirius--"   
  


"I didn't tell him anything!" Harry's voice was a harsh whisper; the other boy's hands holding the front of Ron's robes. "You know I wouldn't! But that is not the fucking point, Ron! You could have--"   
  


"Not the fucking point! How in the hell can you say that? You promised me--"   
  


Clutching Ron's robes, Harry pulled him down until they were eye to eye.   
  


"Ron, I almost killed Draco Malfoy ten minutes ago."   
  


The words hit him like a hard punch to the stomach, he couldn't seem to breathe. Dizzily, he leaned back against the wall, dimly hearing Harry's words crash into his ears.   
  


"I met him in the alley, after I used the tracking spell on your wand...I don't know whether or not he was following me, but he found me. Both of us had our wands drawn. He said things, about...'it'...we both did...we thought we were alone..."   
  


At this, Ron's eyes snapped open, staring in shock at the boy in front of him.   
  


"Thought?" he croaked.   
  


He could read the soft sympathy in the dark green eyes beneath the other boy's glasses, and suddenly his legs wouldn't support him anymore. Slowly, he slid down with his back against wall, feeling the fabric of his robes ruck up against his shirt, trying like hell not to cry or yell or curse something.   
  


//Someone knows. Someone knows. Someone knows. Oh shitfuckmerlindamnbloodyhell, somebody else fucking *knows*//   
  


"Ron!"   
  


Harry's voice was more then a little panicked, and Ron wondered if the other boy thought he had fainted. Damn. He wished.   
  


Harry's hands--warm now--were cupping his face; the other boy was on his knees next to him, words spilling out of his mouth in a desperate torrent.   
  


"Ron, its going to be ok. It will, I swear. Sirius will help us; he knows now, he knows what Malfoy is, what--what he did..."   
  


A strangled sound of denial escaped him.   
  


"Sirius--Sirius knows?"   
  


Harry's hands were combing through his hair, brushing the stray strands away from his face and Ron caught the other boy's fingers with his own, forcing Harry to look him in the eye.   
  


Harry nodded, squeezing Ron's fingers tighter.   
  


"He heard enough, Ron. Not everything...but enough. Sirius...he was in the invisibility cloak; we couldn't see him! He followed me out of the shack, and it was a good thing he did, because I met Malfoy in the alley..."   
  


Ron shook his head, still trying to comprehend the words. All this, because he had stormed out of the Shrieking Shack? Harry had had a confrontation with fucking Malfoy while George had been pestering him to try a brand-new levitation Wheeze?   
  


Malfoy. And Harry. Harry had--   
  


His arms shot out, pulling Harry to him so sharply the other boy half-fell on him. Ron ignored the exclamation of surprise and kissed him, feeling the other boy tense and then relax against him. Heat jolted him as Harry shifted against him, and somewhere in the back of his mind Ron wondered if they were ever going to be able to express some feelings with their words instead of their mouths. Not that he was complaining right now, mind you.   
  


A burst of laughter and the thud of footsteps sounded near the door and Harry drew back, tensing and glancing at the door before the footsteps moved away.   
  


"What in the bloody hell were you *thinking*, Mate? You confronted Malfoy in an alley? Do you know what he could have done to you? Do you have any idea--"   
  


Harry studied him with that inscrutable expression that always drove him nutters. Ron stared at him, feeling a flush of embarrassment rise in his cheeks. Well, hell.   
  


Open mouth, insert foot.   
  


"Nothing happened." Harry's voice was deliberately pitched to be calm and soothing, and for a moment Ron felt like he was five, being comforted by his mother after a large spider had crawled across his shoe. "It could have...but Sirius was there, and neither Malfoy or I managed to get a curse off."   
  


"So--did Malfoy actually *see* Sirius?"   
  


"No. Sirius was invisible the entire time; he held Malfoy off right before he was about to throw a curse at me, and--"   
  


Ron shook his head, forcing himself to understand Harry's words. His brain felt numb, like he had just finished taking a Potions final. But...what Harry was saying...that didn't make any sense...   
  


"Held him off *how*? Sirius doesn't even have a wand...and if he was invisible..."   
  


"He used a stick."   
  


"He used a WHAT?"   
  


The last word came out one note below a yell and he flushed as Harry looked at him, at the door, and back again.   
  


"A stick. Through the invisibility cloak, Malfoy couldn't tell the difference, he thought it was a wand..."   
  


Dark laughter was welling up inside him; the image of Sirius Black beating Draco Malfoy over the head with an invisible stick was too much, and he buried his face in Harry's chest, trying to muffle the sound in the other boy's robes.   
  


"Ron! What--"   
  


For a moment, Harry sounded as though he thought as if Ron was crying. For some reason, this seemed to make him laugh even harder, even as Harry's hands slipped into his hair, smoothing down the strands. His entire body was shaking now with the effort of stifling his laughter; his head swam; he couldn't get enough air.   
  


//Forget the Dementors. Maybe we should just beat him to death with a tree branch...//   
  


Buried in Harry's robes, flushed with the effort to hold back his laughter, his face felt incredibly hot and that thought did nothing to help, sending him into another wave of near frantic laughter. 

There was a pain in his sides now, and Harry was right; he actually *was* crying; tears kept on slipping out of the corners of his eyes, sliding down his flushed cheeks, wetting the black cloth of Harry's robes.   
  


The other boy's hands were smoothing down his back now, rocking him as best they could. No doubt Harry thought he'd just gone completely off the deep end. Finally, Ron managed to get himself under control, gasping for breath and fighting the laughter that threatened to spill out of him. Dear *Merlin*, he didn't think he'd ever laughed like that in his entire life.   
  


Taking great, hitching gasps for breath, he drew back, rubbing at his eyes with his fists, feeling Harry's eyes on him. On impulse he slipped his arms around Harry's neck, resting his forehead on the other boys, and tried to erase the worry evident in those eyes.   
  


"I'm ok. Really. No need for St. Mungos; it just...I thought it was kind of funny..."   
  


To his relief Harry smiled back, wiping the remaining tears from his cheeks with soft sweeps of his thumbs.   
  


"I love you, you know."   
  


Ron nodded, feeling the soft words drive away the last of his anger. Anger was useless now. Sirius knew, and nothing Ron did or said could change that.   
  


"Come back to the Shack with me. Sirius is waiting for us."   
  


Reluctantly Ron nodded, untangling his legs from Harry's before helping the other boy to his feet.   
  


"C'mon. Let's go."   
  


* * *

Ron didn't look at Sirius. Not once.   
  


From the moment Harry forced the first reluctant words out of his own mouth until he fell silent, Ron refused to look at either of them, staring fixedly at his own hands resting on the scarred wooden table top. Harry kept his own hand on Ron's arm, noting the flash in Sirius's eyes when he did so, feeling the muscles in the other boy's arm clench and tense the more Harry spoke.   
  


It was the first time...the only time they'd discussed it with anyone, and when it was finished Harry felt exhausted--no, pummeled, as if he'd been beaten within an inch of his life. Ron was parchment white under his freckles, but when he tried to catch the other boy's eye Ron shook him off with an abrupt shake of his head and stared at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists.   
  


Hand falling away from Ron's shoulder, Harry turned, peering at Sirius through the dark strands of his hair.   
  


The years in Azkhaban had not stripped away his Godfather's basic humanity--the veneer of it, perhaps--but not the soul. Harry knew enough to know that there was no deception, no artifice in his Godfather's expression.   
  


Dark eyes, the fury in them held at bay by some fragile restraint, bored into his own green ones before darting away, focusing on the boy next to him.   
  


"You were right, Ron."   
  


Slowly, as if some invisible hand were forcing his chin up, Ron's blue eyes locked with Sirius's dark ones.   
  


The fury and contempt in Sirius's eyes was palpable, a rage so tangible that Harry could practically taste it, and for a moment Harry wondered if Draco Malfoy would still be alive if Sirius had known everything during their confrontation in the alley.   
  


"You were right. Some people do deserve that kind of death."   
  


Ron smiled.   
  


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Oy. This was supposed to be up Friday, but I got sick. : ( Reviews will make me feel better! Have a good spring break everybody! (And if you don't get one...well, neither did I.) 


	12. Secrets

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer, Rating: Read Chapter 1. If you're starting with Chapter 12...you're gonna get lost.   
  


Dedication: To Rainyday, the most vigilant reviewer in the universe. You rock!   
  
  
  


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A particularly harsh gust of wind caught his cloak, causing it to snap behind him with a sharp tug. The cold air cut at his cheeks, making his eyes sting, but he ignored it, pacing restlessly down the deserted streets of Hogsmeade.   
  


That...bastard.   
  


//Do you *want* to die, Malfoy?//   
  


That green-eyed bastard.   
  


It was almost dark already; winter came early to Scotland. A few windows cast light out on the sidewalk, strains of conversation drifted out into the street.   
  


//I almost killed him.//   
  


The words had been quivering on the edge of his mouth ever since he saw the green-eyed Gryffindor duck into the alley in front of him. Two simple words, and Potter would have been gone.   
  


Voldemort would not have been pleased.   
  


//I *would* have killed him.//   
  


With a quick, savage gesture, he raked a hand through his silvery blonde hair, tangling a few strands around his fingers, feeling minute stings of pain as he accidentally tore some of the strands from his scalp.   
  


Voldemort would have killed *him*.   
  


The Dark Lord had been painstakingly clear. No one was to kill Harry Potter. No one but Him. Anyone who disobeyed orders would experience the fate Voldemort held in store for Potter.   
  


Why, then, had the words been coming out of his mouth when--whoever it was--intervened? Why had he been within bare seconds of destroying his life, sacrificing his future and all that he had been promised...   
  


All just to kill Potter?   
  


//"I'd bet that the wand that fought Voldemort to a draw could destroy yours pretty fast. If you want to live a little while longer...I'd leave. Now."//   
  


Why hadn't he left? Why had he followed Potter in the first place? He hadn't intended to. It had been a foolish, impulsive move.   
  


But the sight of the other boy, alone, had been too much to resist. The only other time he had seen one of them without the other had been in the Great Hall, when Creevy had dragged Potter away. Leaving Weasley.   
  


His eyes narrowed against the wind, eyes looking at the dusky winter sky but not seeing it.   
  


The Great Hall.   
  


Another time when he had almost lost control. He hadn't been supposed to touch Weasley, hadn't meant to provoke him into a fight so quickly. But all restraint had slipped through his fingers incredibly fast. Amazingly, it had almost worked. Almost. Would have worked, if not for that interfering little Mudblood brown-haired bitch...   
  


"Draco?"   
  


The slow, inflectionless voice thudded in his ears, identifying the speaker before he turned around and gazed into Crabbe's vapid face.   
  


"What?"   
  


The other boy blinked at him, brain processing this new stimulus.   
  


"Uhh...what are ya doin' out here?"   
  


The curse that he had almost used on Harry Potter sprung to his lips, but Draco didn't really feel like the hassle of explaining the untimely death of Vincent Crabbe to anyone. Especially Professor Dumbeldore.   
  


"Go. Away. Now."   
  


More blinks. Maybe it was the wind. Draco could feel it gusting around them, rifling through his already messy hair.   
  


Laboriously, Crabbe turned, preparing to shuffle back into the small, stone pub. Hand on the doorknob he turned his head, customary confused expression on his face.   
  


"Aren'tcha gonna come inside? It's cold out here..."   
  
  
  


Unable to stand one more second of Crabbe's dull expression, Draco turned away, wind hitting his face full force. Snarling, he walked away into the stinging wind, resuming his restless pacing.   
  


The Mudblood bitch had interfered in the Great Hall, ruining everything at the last moment. Weasley had performed so...perfectly. Predictably. Draco had had him, again...and then Weasley had slipped through his fingers. The Slytherin remembered the flash of relief in the red-headed Gryffindor's eyes when the Mudblood came running up to him; the only thing that would have made the other boy happier would have been Potter, charging in to save the day.   
  


Potter.   
  


//I should have killed him.//   
  


The thought nagged, gnawed at the back of his brain, refusing to be banished.   
  


//I should have killed him.//   
  


Not in the alley, no. That would have been the height of stupidity, and Malfoys were never stupid. Before. He should have killed Potter before.   
  


//But the Dark Lord...//   
  


Draco tried to ignore the voices whispering in his head, focusing on the scrape of his shoes on the stone street.   
  


Why? Why did he want Potter dead so badly? Last time, he hadn't even *cared*. Potter's presence had been a nuisance at first, a pleasure in the end. Sometime in the last few months, that had changed. Now Draco's dreams flickered back and forth between images of Weasley beneath him and Potter dying beside him. And he was no longer sure which sight gave him more pleasure.   
  


//I want him dead.//   
  


Wanted, wanted. Wanted Potter dead almost as much as he wanted to feel Weasley under him again, twisting and struggling and hot and desperate and frantic...   
  


"Fuck."   
  


The wind ripped the word away from his mouth the instant it left his lips. Was that it? Was that all? He simply wanted Potter out of the way because of Weasley? He had almost defied the Dark Lord, his heritage, his blood...why? Because as long as Potter lived, he couldn't get what he wanted? Was that it? Was that all? Was his own control so deplorable, so bereft?   
  


No. He had not lost control; not in the alley, not in the Great Hall, not in the cave, either. How could someone lose power of a situation that they manipulated themselves? True, Potter was not as easy to manipulate as Weasley, but few were. Besides, he didn't *want* to control Potter. He wanted to *kill* Potter. There was a huge difference.   
  


Yet...using the Avada Kedavra curse on Harry Potter would have killed Draco as surely as it would The Boy Who Lived--so why, why had he been about to say the words before who ever it was stopped him?   
  


Draco absent-mindedly reached up, fingering the mark on his neck where--something, someone-- had dug the tip of their wand into his skin. Something or someone that was going to regret holding Draco Malfoy at wandpoint. Deeply regret it. Had it been some trick of Potters? Some illusion, some charm?   
  


//Go. Now.//   
  


No. Not Potter. They had been less then half a meter apart in that dirty, cramped alley, and Draco had seen the shock and surprise in the other boys famous green eyes. Not Potter, but someone Potter knew. The voice had been low, rough, seemingly half-human. Unrecognizeable.   
  


Viciously he cursed, fingers clenched tight in the pockets of his robes, one hand gripped tightly around his mahogony wand, just in case. The anger in him rose, adding a pink flush to his normally pale cheeks. Leaving Potter alive the first time had been a mistake, no matter what the Dark Lord said. If nothing else, he should have obliviated the boys memory. *Both* of the boys memories. Let Weasley and Potter try to reconstruct what happened. Who knows what conclusions the boys would have come to, Weasley with his robes torn and body sore, Potter with his broken elbow?   
  


The thought had crossed his mind, more then once, down in the cave...but in the end he had rejected it. He didn't *want* them to forget. He didn't want Potter to forget how it had been, dying, choking, gasping for every ice-cold breath. Didn't want him to forget that it was Draco Malfoy who had done that to him, Draco Malfoy who had held the life of the Boy Who Lived in the palm of his hand.   
  


As for Weasley...   
  


A small, soft smile began to spread across Draco's face as he walked, turning down a side-street so that the wind was at his back. As for Weasley...   
  


It was in the way the boy held himself now. The nervous way he drummed his fingers on his leg, how his eyes darted around a room, the soft flinch when anyone except Potter or maybe Granger touched him. The unacknowledged power Draco still held over the red-haired Gryffindor. Just a gesture, a smile from Draco and Weasley would go pale, turn away. Surely no one had ever had that sort of power over the stubborn, hot-tempered youngest Weasley boy before. To provoke such a reaction with just a look...   
  


'Obliviating' Weasley would have lost him that.   
  


A high, clear sound met his ears, jerking him out of his thoughts, wiping the soft smile off his face. Laughter, coming from the next street over, carried by the cold wind.   
  


Scowling, Draco followed the laughter, feeling the warmth drain out of him as thoughts of Weasley evaporated, replaced with cold, hard fury at Potter. Potter, and who ever it was that had surprised him. *Humiliated* him. Snuck up on him, like a coward, hiding behind an invisibility cloak. Someone who had held a wand to his neck, threatened him, heard *him* threaten Potter...   
  


The realization hit him like a stinging slap, and he stopped abruptly, cloak rippling out behind him in the wind.   
  


Someone had heard. Heard him and Potter. The bastard or bitch in the invisibility cloak had heard...what? Him threaten Potter's life, certainly. Anything else?   
  


//"That would have been amusing, wouldn't it, Potter? I get to fuck Weasley, and you *still* get to die."//   
  


Anxiously remembering his confrontation with Potter in the alley. Trying to remember. What had he said? And what had someone heard?   
  


//"Do you really think Weasley could have killed me, Potter? I don't. By the time I was done with him, he was so far gone he probably didn't even know his own name. I should have left you dying on the floor."//   
  


Fuck. Had they heard? Ignoring the gusts of wind, Draco brushed a few strands of hair off his forehead with a hand that shook slightly.   
  


//"I'm not *going* to die, Potter. Not now. But *you* might.//   
  


Had they heard that? And who *were* they? Who would Potter trust enough to lend his precious invisibility cloak to?   
  


The Mudblood bitch? One of Weasley's twin brothers?   
  


He grimaced, an icy jolt of fear he couldn't quite overcome sweeping through him at the idea of Weasley's twin brothers knowing...or even suspecting...   
  


He shuddered, feeling goosebumps race across his skin, and told himself it was because of the cold, damp breeze.   
  


No. Not one of the Twins; the idea was absurd. Those carrot-colored clowns couldn't keep their mouths shut for an instant. Besides, he would have recognized their voices. And if it had been one of them--*if* they had heard everything--he would probably be dead right now.   
  
  
  


Draco turned down the main avenue of Hogsmeade, feet slick on the cold cobblestone street. There were a few students huddled together, presumably for warmth, outside Honeydukes. Gryffindors, by their scarves. Another wave of laughter drifted through the air, carried by the wind, and Draco recognized *her* laughter, and felt the familiar disgust rise up in him.   
  


The Mudblood bitch. With that fucking squib, Longbottom. And Weasley's pathetic sister. Chatting excitedly, passing sweets back and forth.   
  


Two Pure-bloods, from some of the oldest Wizarding families in Britain, consorting with a common Mudblood. The bitch who had the audacity to surpass him in all of his classes, except Potions...who had slapped him, actually laid a finger on him, third year...   
  


Who had dragged Weasley away, in the Great Hall, just when Draco had known the boy was trapped...   
  


Bitch.   
  


Eyes narrowed, he watched her smile at Longbottom, bushy brown hair streaming out behind her. He realized that he was gripping his wand painfully tight in his pocket, and he forced himself to release his fingers.   
  


Had it been her? *Could* it have been her? In the Alley? Had she been the one wearing Potter's invisibility cloak? Was she the one that had dug the tip of their wand into his neck, forcing him out, disgusing her voice? Had it been her?   
  


//Does she know?//   
  


It had been at least twenty minutes since the end of the confrontation in the alley. More then enough time for the Bitch to give the cloak back to Potter, find Longbottom and Weasley's sister, and *pretend* that she didn't know. What if it was her? What if she knew?   
  


//Kill her.//   
  


He should have killed Potter, and he hadn't. He wouldn't make the same mistake again. If the Bitch knew...   
  


Unaware that the beginnings of a soft smile had begun to form on his face, Draco walked towards the three Gryffindors, fingering the mahagony wand in his pocket. How would he get the Bitch away from the other two? She certainly wouldn't follow him, and unless he surprised her...   
  


The thoughts broke off as Weasley's sister spotted him heading towards them, the look of disgust on her face an exact copy of her Ron's usual reaction to his presence...or rather, Ron's *old* reaction to his presence. The one before.   
  
  
  


The resemblance was uncanny, broken only by the softness of the female features and the anger sparking in eyes that were wood-brown instead of dark blue. Glaring at him, she turned and muttered something in the Mudblood's ear, nearly losing an eye to the thick strands of the Bitches' hair.   
  


The Mudblood's eyes widened, pulling away from Weasley's sister, eyes fixing unerringly on him over Longbottom's shoulder.   
  


"Go away."   
  


Amazingly, Longbottom moved towards the door of Honeydukes, evidently believing the Mudblood had been talking to *him*, stopping only when Weasley grabbed his elbow and pointed at Draco. Longbottom's face, red from the cold wind, went pale.   
  


He smirked at them, watching in amusement as Longbottom gasped and Weasley tightened her grip on his arm. The Mudblood looked at them...and then stared back at him, impatience and frustration evident on her face.   
  


"I'm busy, Malfoy. Go away. I don't have the time or patience for you."   
  


Longbottom gasped, dropping one of his cauldron cakes to the ground. Weasley watched them both, eyes flickering back and forth between him and the Mudblood.   
  


Slowly, Draco stepped forward, looking down at the Mudblood. He had grown--finally--in the middle of his fifth year, and while he wasn't quite as tall as Potter, he was at least taller then this Gryffindor bitch.   
  


Her voice...   
  


She frowned back at him, arms crossed, looking like she was auditioning for a role as McGonnagal. Perch a pair of spectacles on her nose, and she'd fit the part perfectly; she certainly had the cold glare down--   
  


She didn't know.   
  


He'd suspected the instant she'd spoken to him. But now...he could see it in her eyes. The Mudblood bitch was better at hiding her emotions than Weasley...but then again, a drunken chimpanzee was better at hiding their emotions than Weasley. But not even Gryffindor's pet student could face him this cooly, this calmly, this...dispassionatley...as she was right now if she had been the one under the invisibility cloak under the alley. Granger was adept at schoolwork because she fucking *memorized* every book in the Hogwarts library...it was when situations required free thought that she folded, displaying the weakness of her blood. The bitch lost control.   
  


There was no new hate in her expression, just a mixture of the old familiar impatience and annoyance. If she had had heard...   
  


For a moment Draco's smirk widened, imagining the Mudblood's reaction if she *had* overheard his and Potter's little exchange in the alley. The only time he had seen Granger angry--really, violently angry--had been third year, when he'd insulted that giant oaf of a Groundskeeper, Hagrid. Her brown eyes had been blazing, the scorn and contempt in her voice palpable. She wouldn't be nearly so dismissive of him if she had any idea of what he had done to both of her best friends.   
  


//They hadn't told her.// The knowledge made him smile triumphantly, enjoying the growing look of irritation in her eyes. //Mudblood Granger doesn't know something about her best friends.// His eyes flickered over to Weasley's sister, dismissing Longbottom. //She doesn't know, either.// The cold fear and anxiety that had been shadowing him ever since the confrontation in the alley with Potter dissapeared and when the wind gustsed he ignored it, watching the other three shiver.   
  


None of them knew.   
  


But someone else did. Or at least suspected.   
  


The thought wiped the smirk from his face, and he glared at Weasley's sister when she finally got up the guts to talk to him. A Gryffindor? Her?   
  


"Listen, Malfoy, unless you have a reason for bugging us, just leave. We have better things to do than talk to you."   
  


Longbottom smiled, barely, at Weasley, and Draco resisted the urge to draw his wand and demonstrate to the portly boy the curse that had reduced his parents to pure-blooded nutcases. Still, his fingers gripped his wand, fighting the almost overhelming desire to curse or hex someone. Leaving now, with Weasley and Granger's words ringing in his ears, felt far to much like a retreat. Malfoy's did *not* retreat. Especially in the face of a Mudblood, a squib, and a pauper bitch.   
  


He had discovered what he needed to know; it was not the Mudblood who had held the wand to his neck, ordered him to leave, possibly heard everything. Not her, but someone had. Someone had surprised him, threatened him.   
  


He grit his teeth, feeling his fingers clench around his wand. Images played in his mind, images of today, the Great Hall, the cave...when the Mudblood had managed to save Weasley, steal him away from right under his nose...Weasley punching him, actually *choking* him, during their fight in the Great Hall...feeling his heart seize up in terror and disbelief as someone held an invisible wand to his neck...Potter, his fingers tangled in Weasley's hair, kissing the other boy with the last bit of breath in his body...   
  


The memories brought a flush of anger to his normally pale face. He would not retreat. Not in front of these three, no matter what. They--the Mudblood, Weasley, Potter--had hurt him. Humiliated him. And he would pay them back in kind. Now.   
  


The image of Potter, snivelling in Weasley's arms, flashed through his mind again...and Draco smiled. Any hex or curse he used would wear off...but using the people they loved to bring them pain...well, that leave far worse scars.   
  


Perfect.   
  


"Oh, but I *do* have a reason for 'bugging' you, female Weasel. I have a secret to tell you. All of you, in fact. It's about your brother."   
  


The red-haired girl was drumming the fingers of her hand on her upper arm, staring at him with obvious distaste. "There is nothing you could tell me about my brother that Hermione or I wouldn't already know, Malfoy."   
  


On the edge of his vision, the Mudblood winced, just barely, a flush of color rising in her cheeks.   
  


"Oh, I disagree, Weasel. Unless you already knew that your brother is fucking Potter."   
  


Longbottom choked, gasping for breath. Neither girl moved; Weasley's sister froze, the color draining from her face. That infantile crush on Potter hadn't dissipated, evidently; tears began to well up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.   
  


"What a load of tripe. Is that the best you can do, Malfoy? You've lost your touch..."   
  


She broke off, voice shaking harshly on the last few words.   
  


"Harry and Ron are best *friends.* I guess that term doesn't make any sense to you, Malfoy, but they're friends. They're like...brothers."   
  


"Right, Hermione?"   
  


The Mudblood's lips opened reluctantly, strands of hair flung across her face by the wind. The deep shock and anger, so visible on Weasley's face, had not flashed through her eyes, and Draco felt a sharp bite of irritation. *She* had already known. The Mudblood bitch had already known about Weasley and Potter; he hadn't surprised her at all. Telling Weasley and Longbottom had been just a bonus; he had wanted to see Granger cry...   
  


"Ginny..."   
  


Weasley's sister was staring hard at the Mudblood, realization dawning on her face. Behind her, Longbottom had finally stopped choking and was breathing hard, massaging his throat.   
  


"He's--he's joking. He has to be. Hermione...?"   
  


The Mudblood shivered, fixing Draco with a baleful glare before turning a sympathetic gaze on the red-headed girl.   
  


"Ginny, come inside, we need to talk..."   
  


Draco turned away, smiling, footsteps echoing down the deserted streets of Hogsmeade.   
  
  
  
  
  


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Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far! Please, continue. And tell me what you think; writing Draco is always so much different then writing Ron...Oh, and thanks for everyone who wished me better health. I feel much better, thanks. : )   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	13. Siblings

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: If I owned the Harry Potter characters (which I don't) I would be royally pissed off at the way *some* people have twisted and warped a wonderful, loveable character cough*Ron*cough into a weak, cowardly abuser. Can't wait to see the looks on your faces when you read book 7, buddies. Having said that, I'm now going to torture Ron for most of this chapter. Sorry...   
  


Summary: Ron is having a no terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. And it's only going to get worse before it gets better...   
  


Notes: This includes a serious Ron/Ginny fight. Siblings do not always get along, fights can get nasty under the best of circumstances, and Ron is not exactly under the best of circumstances right now. If you prefer the sunshine and flowers version of the Ron and Ginny sibling relationship, skip this chapter, or skim to the part where Ron and Harry start making out. If you want to see the two youngest Weasley siblings get into a fight over Harry...read on.   
  


Dedication: Mad Martha, for her gentle reminder about updating this story, and for writing "Circles of Power," an incredibly well-written and entertaining story that has inadvertently delayed the posting of this story due to this author's insatiable urge to read each chapter the instant it appears, inevitably taking up some of her limited time on her computer. That's right; I'm passing the buck! 

  
  


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The fingers clutched around his upper arm slipped, their grasp slick with sweat, losing their grip slightly before clutching even harder, the fingers digging painfully into his skin.   
  


It was always this way.   
  


He blinked furiously, his eyes stinging from the sweat and tears.   
  


It was always this way.   
  


Sharp, sudden pain in his neck--//he bit me, he bit me//--and he yelled, fingers scrambling uselessly, pushing ineffectually against the source of the pain.   
  


It was always this way.   
  


Stinging pain in his scalp; fingers twisted roughly through the strands of his hair, tugging and yanking, his eyes hot with tears. He would not let them fall. He would not, he would not, he would not...   
  


It was always this way.   
  


Silver/gold/gray swam in his vision. Blurry. Good. Good. He didn't want to see.   
  


Warm, slick, wet heat on his neck. Hands, sharp nails on his hips, legs, thighs. Light, silvery-blonde hair, nearly dazzlingly bright even in the dark, tickling the side of his face and ear...   
  


He was sore; damned sore, biting back a cry of pain as his body was shifted, teased, positioned...   
  


Pain ripped through him and he jerked, choking roughly on his own breath.   
  


Gasping, hearing the thud of his heartbeat drum deafeningly in his ears. Hands bruising him, holding him down; it wasn't just sweat that made those fingers slip on his skin.   
  


It was always this way.   
  


Twisting his arm, his body. Reaching out blindly with one bruised hand, grasping, touching...   
  


//Don't wake him.//   
  


The tips of his fingers brushed the others, desperate for contact, for comfort. He strained, reaching, pleading, *needing* to feel Harry's hand...   
  


Harry.   
  


//Listen, no offense, but I don't care what it is you need to talk about. He hasn't been sleeping well; we--he had a really long day and he fell asleep in the chair, and I'm not going to wake 

him--//   
  


Angry. Harry was angry.   
  


Dark, all he could see was the hateful silvery blonde hair flung across his eyes. Whimpering softly, he reached desperately, seeking Harry's hand. But it wasn't there. Harry had left him.   
  


//No. There is nothing we need to talk about that can't wait until Ron wakes up...//   
  


The hands were back, gripping his shoulder painfully hard; his body was rocking back and forth from the force of Malfoy's movements--   
  


//GINNY!//   
  


He wrenched himself free from the fingers and flung himself in the direction of that voice.   
  


//Harry.//   
  


Familiar hands, good hands, settled on his shoulders and his eyes snapped open.   
  


A sea of red met his eyes, the velvet of the wing-backed chair he'd been sitting in, talking with Harry when he'd evidently dropped off. Right into the pit of hell. Somehow he'd managed to jam the armrest against the small of his back; his fingers rubbed the spot, arching his body off the chair, feeling the familiar hands tighten comfortingly on his shoulders.   
  


Damp strands of hair fell in his eyes; he had been sweating; the dream had been bad. Really bad. The worst in weeks. Because of Sirius, probably. Listening to Harry tell him...   
  


"Ron."   
  


He bit his lip, wildly hoping for a moment that if he simply curled up smaller in the chair and didn't respond, that Ginny would go away and leave him alone. The red-velvet chair could provide camouflage for his hair...   
  


Rubbing his stinging eyes with the palms of his hands he blinked, glancing at his little sister--and froze, barely noticing when Harry's hands fell away from his shoulders.   
  


Oh, shit.   
  


Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.   
  


"I need to talk with you. Alone."   
  


Her brown eyes were bloodshot, red hair a tangled mess, probably from the freezing wind. Her color was high, face flushed the same way his did when he was embarrassed...or angry.   
  


"Ginny, is it really necessary--"   
  


But Ginny merely stood there, hands on her hips, ignoring Harry. Still rubbing the small of his back, Ron glanced up at the other boy and realized that, while Ginny was glaring at him, Ron, Harry was watching Ginny with a wary expression beneath his glasses.   
  


Glancing up at Ginny--it felt damn strange, to be looking *up* at her and Harry, for a change--he twisted around in the chair, resting his elbow on the arm and kicking his long legs up against the study table nearby.   
  


"What's up, Gin?"   
  


"I told you. I want to talk to you alone."   
  


Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry start to slip away and seized his elbow abruptly, fingers clutching the dark black fabric desperately. He couldn't leave. Not now. Not after that dream. Whatever Ginny wanted, she would have to tell him in front of Harry.   
  


"Don't leave."   
  


The words came out in the softest of whispers; there was no way either Harry or Ginny could have heard him...but Harry nodded, sitting on the empty arm rest.   
  


"Ginny, whatever it is, you can tell me in front of Harry."   
  


One red eyebrow arched at him, the flush of color deepening on his sisters face as she looked at them. Quickly, Ron dropped his hand away from Harry's arm, tugging nervously at the fabric of the chair.   
  


"Oh, don't stop what you were doing on account of me, Ron. Its all right."   
  


Confused and feeling his temper start to flare, he stared hard at his sister.   
  


"For the four hundredth time, Gin...what the hell do you want?"   
  


"I want to know how long you have been fucking Harry."   
  


Harry's fingers tightened convulsively on the chair, but Ron ignored him. He recognized that look in Ginny's eyes now, and his blood rose, the memories of a thousand childhood quarrels rising in his mind.   
  


"What does it matter to you, Gin-NEEE?"   
  


He deliberately dragged out the last syllable of her name. She had always hated that, and usually responded by mocking his own name...   
  


"Oh, I dont know, Ron-ALD. Maybe because you knew...I told you, this summer..."   
  


Ginny trailed off, biting her lip hard. Some dim memory of a summer night out on the porch at the Burrow, watching the sun set and the stars appear, his sister talking softly beside him surfaced, but Ron ignored it. So Ginny had a crush on Harry. What the fuck?   
  


"Ginny..."   
  


Harry's soft voice broke in but both siblings, the veterans of numerous childhood fights, ignored it.   
  


"You knew...how I felt. I *told* you. And you didn't care. You didn't tell me a *thing*; you encouraged me! Told me how much you'd like Harry as a brother-in-law--"   
  


"So?"   
  


He noticed that Ginny's hands were fisted tight, and wondered if she was going to hit him. Maybe. It wouldn't be the first time their words had come to blows.   
  


"Maybe I decided I wanted him in a different way. What business is it of yours?"   
  


It was odd, looking at Ginny in a fury; the resemblance between the two of them was uncanny. Except for the eyes. Her dark brown eyes concealed secrets far better than his own blue ones...   
  


"Oh, right. I know why you care. Because you *love* Harry, is that it? Of course. You know him *so* well."   
  


She crossed her arms over her chest, breathing hard, blinking rapidly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Harry, watching him with a surprised expression on his face.   
  


"I know him--"   
  


"You stupid little girl."   
  


Ginny's lip trembled, and for a moment Ron wondered if he'd gone too far. But even as he felt Harry's hands on his shoulders again, he realized he didn't care. Months of frustration had worn away his restraint; months of lying, looking over his shoulder, plotting and sneaking and dreaming, and he knew he was going to snap. He couldn't take it out on Harry. He *couldn't*.   
  


But Ginny...   
  


She was his sister; they'd fought before; they'd fight again. What business did she have, anyway, comparing her stupid schoolgirl crush on Harry to his six years of friendship? Was he supposed to ignore his feelings for Harry--and Harry's for him--because Ginny went all goo-goo eyed when ever Harry walked in the room?   
  


"I can't believe you--"   
  


"Shut. Up."   
  


For the second time that day, Ron felt his temper take over, a dim haze of red where nothing else mattered. Last time, in the Shack, he'd left before he said something he knew he'd regret. Not this time. He *wanted* this fight, needed it, craved it.   
  


Damn everything else.   
  


"Don't you get it? Harry. does. not. like. you. I don't *give* a damn about your stupid little crush. Grow up, already."   
  


She glared at him, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of her eyes with a trembling hand, her voice rough and shaking. 

At that moment Hermione stumbled through the Portrait Hole, obviously at the end of a long run. 

Hand clutching her chest, she leaned back against the wall.   
  


"Ginny--" She gasped.   
  


But the other girl ignored her. Glaring at him, Ginny spat the words out.   
  


"I hate you."   
  


He knew she didn't mean it; knew it was her own Weasley temper and the shock of the news about him and Harry, knew she was lying...but the words still stung. Deeply. She wanted to hurt him, to see him bleed...well, if that was what she wanted, two could play at that game.   
  


Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hermione, still leaning against the wall, close her eyes in despair, heard Harry gasp, felt his hands tighten on his shoulders.   
  


"Yeah? Why's that, Gin-neeee? Because I took something that was never yours in the first place?"   
  


"Ron--"   
  


Harry's voice whispered placatingly in his ear and he ignored it, pulling away. Didn't Harry understand that he *needed* this? That if he didn't unleash his temper on someone soon, very soon, fucking *now*, that he was going to explode?   
  


"You don't even *know* Harry. You just act like some love-struck little idiot around him. Did you know he doesn't like steak and kidney pie? That his favorite book is "Flying with the Cannons?" That he snores when he's got a head cold and picks his nose when he thinks none of us are looking? That he can't sleep if there is a single light on in the room? That he dreams about his parents or that, when he looks at the album full of pictures of his parents, that the only thing that will cheer him up is quidditch? Or did you just blind yourself to everything that doesn't paint him as a picture-perfect hero in your eyes? He's not some perfect hero, he's not a savior, he's just Harry, and he DOES. NOT. LIKE. YOU!"   
  


"Ron." Hermione whispered, tears in her voice. "Ron, that's enough--"   
  


It should have been. It really should have been enough.   
  


But it wasn't.   
  


Instead, he smiled darkly at his baby sister, remembering all the times she had tattled on him and provoked him and teased him and hit him and gotten away with it because she was the youngest, and the only girl.   
  


"Gonna go whinging to Mum because evil Wonnie took the boy you wanted as a boyfwiend? Gonna thwow a temper tantwum to get what you want? What are you gonna do? Sick a basilisk on me?"   
  


She actually flinched, as if he had struck her, the color draining from her face before she turned and fled out the portrait hole, ignoring Hermione's half-hearted attempt to stop her. He watched the Portrait Hole close behind her, the trademark Weasley hair vanishing into the hall.   
  


His face burning, though with anger or embarrassment he didn't know, he lurched to his feet, trying desperately to avoid everyone's eyes. Thank Merlin there was no one else in the Common Room. Thank Merlin.   
  


They hadn't fought like that...in years. Since before Hogwarts, really. And he'd never said anything like that...she'd never actually said...   
  


//I hate you.//   
  


Despite everything, he snorted with laughter, raking a hand distractedly through his windblown hair, not noticing when a Hermione threw a wary glance his way. 

//I hate you.// How often had he thought those words in the last few months? How often had he felt those words on his lips as he watched Malfoy move through the halls of Hogwarts?   
  


And Ginny honestly thought she hated *him*?   
  


His fists were trembling and he jammed them deep in his pockets, trying not to think. About what he had said to Ginny, what she had said to him, what she would do now, now that she knew...   
  


Ginny couldn't keep a secret unless a fifty year old diary was possessing her. Hermione knew; Sirius knew; Ginny knew. Which meant soon that Fred and George would know, and Bill, and Charlie, and Percy, and Mum and Dad, and Dumbeldore, and Rita Skeeter, and the entire fucking wizarding world...   
  


"Shit!"   
  


He whirled abruptly, kicking the side of the couch as hard as he could, wincing as he felt the pain travel up his leg. He drew back his leg again, but familiar hands grasped the collar of his robes, holding him tightly.   
  


"Stop it."   
  


He glared down into Harry's eyes but the other boy refused to budge, tightening his grip.   
  


"You're being stupid."   
  


He flinched, barely, as the words fell from Harry's lips. Again, he tried to pull away, but Harry wasn't going to let him go.   
  


"You don't understand--"   
  


"I understand perfectly." Harry's green eyes were stern behind his glasses. "Ginny knows, and trashing the common room, hurting yourself and attracting *more* attention wont help. Ginny knows, and there is nothing you can do to change that."   
  


"We could do a memory charm on her."   
  


The words surprised himself almost as much as they did Harry; he hadn't even been aware that he'd been thinking that. Feeling nauseous at his own words he tried again, ineffectually, to pull away, straining the fabric between Harry's fingers. Finally he yielded; Harry hadn't budged an inch and if he didn't stop pulling away, his old hand-me-down robes would probably rip.   
  


"You don't mean that."   
  


He didn't, not really, but...   
  


He'd thought fighting with Ginny would help; clear the air, release some of the poison in his system...but it hadn't. It had only made things worse; now, in addition to little sleep and bad dreams and increasing fights with Harry and little time with Hermione and always looking over his shoulder and Sirius knowing and Harry almost killing Malfoy earlier today--well, now there was Ginny knowing about him and Harry.   
  


This day was going to go into the record-books as one of the worst fucking days in his entire life...right behind the day that had put him in this miserable situation in the first place.   
  


He was tired and furious; he'd rowed with Sirius, and Harry, and now Ginny. And now here he was, rowing with Harry *again.* This must be some sort of record for them.   
  


"Ron, don't blame Ginny. She was just so startled--"   
  


She wasn't the only one; he nearly jumped out of his skin when Hermione's voice spoke unexpectedly from behind him. He released a shaky breath, twisting around to see her serious expression.   
  


"It wasn't her fault. I tried to explain--"   
  


"You *told* her?"   
  


She shook her head, curls tumbling around her shoulders, trying to speak, but he didn't give her a chance. A dim memory of Hermione going behind his and Harry's backs third year resurfaced, the old sting at her deception rising up.   
  


"I can't believe you. You told her. My sister. You promised--"   
  


"For Merlin's sake, Ron, I did not tell Ginny!"   
  


When she was upset, Hermione's voice went up an octave; out of the corner of his eye he saw Harry wince before not only tightening the grip on his robes but actually pulling on them, tugging Ron closer to the spectacled boy--and further away from Hermione. One hand clutched in the robes around Ron's waist, Harry pushed his glasses up his nose with the other, silencing Ron with a glance before turning his sharp eyes on their other friend.   
  


"Then who did? Because last time I checked, Hermione, you *were* the only person who knew."   
  


"Not because you told me. Neither of you said a word to me until I figured it out for myself."   
  


The hurt that had been in her voice those weeks ago in this same Common Room was back, whispering around the edges of her voice. Ron blocked it out, not caring to hear it. She had no right to feel hurt right now.   
  


"So that's it? You told Ginny because you were angry that Harry and I kept it a secret from you?" 

Fury flashed in her brown eyes, but before she could respond, he continued. "Isn't that really petty of you, Hermione?"   
  


"You might want to watch your mouth, Ron." He sneered at her, and the look in her eyes hardened. "You've already said some very cruel things to your little sister; I don't know how long it will take for her to forgive you."   
  


"Her! Forgive me!--"   
  


"And you'll want to stop before you fight with everyone who loves you." Her eyes flickered over his shoulder to stare at Harry before returning to look him straight in the eye. "I already told you; I didn't tell Ginny. Someone else did."   
  


"There is no one else. Only you."   
  


"Well Draco Malfoy had a pretty crude way of putting it, but he knew exactly what was going on between you two. How, I don't know."   
  


Heat flooded his face and ears, he dropped his gaze, refusing to look into Hermione's eyes.   
  


"What are you talking about, Hermione?"   
  


He barely heard Harry's words at his ear, choosing instead to stare as hard as he could at the floor.   
  


Of course. Malfoy. Who else?   
  


Ears ringing, he risked a quick glance at Hermione.   
  


"--outside The Three Broomsticks, Ginny and Neville and I--"   
  


Ron groaned, rubbing his temples with tense fingers. Neville. Hurray. This was just getting better and better--   
  


"--wouldn't leave, he told us that he knew a secret about you two. I never thought--I don't know how on earth *he* would know; he'd be the last person in the world you two would ever tell..."   
  


Moving like a man in a dream, Ron shrugged out from under Harry's hands and collapsed in the chair he had been napping in less than an hour ago. Wincing in memory, his fingers dug at the small of his back.   
  


"What did he say?"   
  


She shot a dark glare at him and he cursed himself inwardly. She really was angry at him, and probably wouldn't forgive him for a couple of days.   
  


She opened her mouth reluctantly, a blush of color rising in her cheeks.   
  


"He said...do you really want me to tell you?"   
  


Harry groaned, shaking his head and stuffing his hands in his pockets. Silent, Ron nodded, watching apprehensively as Hermione fidgeted with the hem of her robes.   
  


"He said...err, he toldusyouwerefuckingeachother."   
  


He blinked, trying to decipher the rapid-fire words.   
  


Oh. Oh. OH.   
  


The exact phrase his baby sister had just woken him up with. How appropriate.   
  


"He was so...repulsive about it, just blurted it out like that; I thought Neville was going to 

choke--"   
  


Ron felt a little like that himself, biting back a hysterical laugh at his mental image of Neville's reaction to the news. This was not funny. Not in the slightest. This was the farthest thing in the world from funny. That Slytherin son of a bitch had spilled their secret to his little sister and Gryffindor's biggest male gossip, which meant it was only a matter of time before everyone else knew. So why on earth did he feel like laughing? Hermione wasn't looking at either of them but Ron covered his mouth with his hand, to hide the smile that was *not* forming there. Because this was not funny. Not at all.   
  


"--of course he had to reveal it to Ginny and Neville in the rudest terms possible; if Ginny could just have found out in a gentler way, I really don't think she would have reacted so badly..."   
  
  
  


//Really? What could possibly be more diplomatic than, 'Your brother is fucking the boy you love?'//   
  


A strange sound escaped his throat; Harry glanced at him, concerned. Desperately, Ron strove not to laugh. The way his emotions had been whipping back and forth, if he started out by laughing, he'd probably end up crying. And he was sick of acting like a bloody pregnant woman.   
  


"--Malfoy left, and I still had to talk to Ginny; Neville was wondering whether he should buy you a 'Congratulations!' gift or just ask you to put silencing charms up around your beds--"   
  


Harry's lips twitched, fighting the smile wanting to form there.   
  


Ron lost it.   
  


Snaring the nearest pillow in a quick grab, he buried his face in it just in time to muffle the laughter he couldn't hold back anymore. He could smell some heavy, sickly-sweet perfume on it and guessed that either Parvati or Lavender had used the cushion last. The smell of flowers was cloying but he ignored it as best he could, feeling his control slipping away for what felt like the thousandth time that day. Dear sweet Merlin, but he was fucking sick of this roller-coaster ride of emotions.   
  


Over the muffled sound of his own laughter, he could barely hear the hum of Harry and Hermione's voices. They were probably discussing when would be the best time to take him to St. Mungos.   
  


Head pounding from the scent of the perfume and the effort to control his laughter, Ron reluctantly raised his eyes, staring blankly at his best friends, a thousand half-formed thoughts darting through his brain. He wanted to go to sleep. He wanted to yell at Hermione. He wanted to apologize to his sister. He wanted to play quidditch. He wanted to see Draco Malfoy drawn and quartered. He wanted some chocolate frogs.   
  


/Ronald, I think you're going crazy.//   
  


He sniggered; the solemn voice in his head sounded exactly like Percy. Hermione looked at him and for a moment Ron froze. There were questions in her eyes, hard ones, and he wasn't sure what they were but he knew sure as hell that he didn't want to answer them--   
  


"How did Malfoy know? About you two? It's a pretty safe bet that you two didn't *tell* him...so how did he find out?"   
  


He gaped at her, trying desperately to think of something--anything, but the only thing in his mind was a low, tuneless buzzing.   
  


//Lie! C'mon, Ron--lie! You can do it!//   
  
  
  


But he couldn't. Not convincingly, anyway. Not to Hermione, not to Harry, not to anyone.   
  


"I have no idea. Maybe he just spotted us, and we didn't notice. Maybe he's been spying on us--"   
  


Ron snorted, ignoring Hermione's curious look. There was no 'maybe' about it.   
  


"It could have been anything." Harry finished rather lamely, scratching the back of his head. Disbelieving, Hermione glanced at Ron and he shrugged, hoping against hope that Hermione would drop it and knowing that she wouldn't.   
  


"But how? How *could* he know? He said that you two were--"   
  


She cut off again, smothering the next words with her own hand. Wide eyed, she glanced back and forth between the two of them.   
  


"Are you...I mean...the two of you--have you?--"   
  


Slightly amused, Ron raised an eyebrow at her. She was blushing again, and now it was Hermione who intensely studying the floor. Just over her shoulder, he caught Harry's eyes, watching him.   
  


"No, Hermione. No matter what Malfoy said, Ron and I haven't, err... 'been together' yet."   
  


Their best friend nodded, relief evident on her face, but Ron barely noticed. He looked thoughtfully at Harry, watching as the other boy talked with Hermione.   
  


'Yet.' Such a small little word, but...   
  


He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wondering. 'Yet.' Did that mean that Harry wanted to...?   
  


In the past two months, they'd never done anything except a lot of snogging and a few enthusiastic groping sessions. Ok, a lot of *very* enthusiastic groping sessions. Sharing a bedroom with three other boys didn't leave much room for privacy, and every night they slept in the same bed was just another opportunity to get caught...   
  


But that didn't matter a whit anymore, did it?   
  


If Neville knew, it was only a matter of time before their other roommates knew as well. Which meant that maybe they wouldn't have to sneak around anymore. Maybe they could kiss and touch without worrying about when the doorknob would rattle; maybe they could do more.   
  


He licked his lips, thoughts of his sister and Hermione banished from his mind. Another, completely different type of worry had consumed him.   
  


Did he *want* to do more?   
  


Did Harry?   
  


Hermione was shaking her head, arguing with Harry and gesturing at him, but Ron ignored her after he caught the word "Ginny." He was not going to apologize to her, no matter what he had said. She had started the fight; she had escalated it. Let her fume and bitch and whine; he had more important things to worry about.   
  


Like Malfoy. And Harry.   
  


"Ron, you need to talk to your sister."   
  


He scowled at her, but her expression didn't change; Hermione had that "I-know-what's-best" look in her eyes. Heh. That was a crock. Since when did Hermione know what it was like to fight with a sibling?   
  


A stinging retort sprung to his lips but he bit it back, exercising admirable self control. She was already mad enough at him; he didn't want to make it worse.   
  


"I'll think about it."   
  


"Ron--"   
  


"Later, ok! I swear on my Chocolate Frog Cards that I'll do it, but later! I'm...I'm tired, and I need to go upstairs."   
  


Her expression softened, and he knew he'd won. He even saw a hint of a smile, when he mentioned the Chocolate Frog Cards. Too bad she didn't know he didn't give a damn about those things anymore--he'd chucked them over a month ago; they were childish and useless and stupid. Kinda like him.   
  


Harry knew, of course; he arched an eyebrow at Ron's oath but didn't say a word as Hermione accepted it, walking out of the common room, probably to find Ginny. Ignoring everything, Ron trudged up the stairs to the Common Room, only half-hearing the sound of Harry's lighter footsteps behind him.   
  


Neville wasn't in the Sixth-Year Boys Dorm Room, thank Merlin--Ron knew he wouldn't have been able to deal with the other boys embarrassment, or disgust, or curiosity, or whatever response he had to the news about him and Harry. He held the door open long enough for Harry to enter and then collapsed on his bed, hearing it creak at his sudden weight. Or maybe it was Harrys' bed. He didn't care. It didn't matter.   
  


Feeling like he had been trampled by an enormous herd of hippogriffs, only worse, he buried his face in the pillow, clutching it tightly. Harry's bed, definitely. He could smell the scent on the pillow. It mingled with the warm hand now on his back, rubbing circles against his skin.   
  


"I've never seen you and Ginny fight like that before."   
  


The circles had expanded; fingers, small but deceptively strong, were kneading his shoulders, pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing.   
  


"Mmmmmmmmmm."   
  


He murmured into the pillow, unable to summon the energy for any other type of response.   
  


"Are you going to talk to her?"   
  


"Mmmmmmmmmm."   
  


A palm pressed against either side of his spine, fingers rubbing away at the knots. The worn fabric of his old robes chafed pleasantly against his skin, the weight of Harry's frame resting on his lower back.   
  


"Maybe we should both talk to her. Perhaps that would help."   
  


Even as the words reached his ears, Ron knew that Harry loathed the idea. He opened his mouth to say something to this effect, but only burrowed his face deeper in the pillow, biting back a groan of pleasure as Harry's hands moved. Pressing, releasing, kneading.   
  


Sirius, Ginny, Hermione, even Malfoy...their words and faces faded with the movement of Harry's hands.   
  


A rustle of clothing; the bed creaked and then warm weight lay against his back, the press of the other boys chest, the rapid thud of a heartbeat synchronizing with his own. Instinctively, he turned his face to the side, feeling the cotton rub against his cheek...and opened his lips when he found Harry's mouth there, as he had known he would.   
  


It was always this way.   
  


Hot, sweet...this was familiar, like Harry was familiar. Tangled together on a bed, touching and gasping and kissing. Still sprawled on his stomach, feeling every inch of weight where Harry's body lay on top of his.   
  


Slowly, the kiss broke off, Ron wincing slightly at the pain in his neck, then gasping as Harry's fingers, rough with callouses and streaked with dust, slid around his throat, thumbs pressing almost painfully against the knots. Followed swiftly by Harry's lips, tongue, and teeth. Strands of red-gold hair fell away from his face as he arched his neck and shoulders up reflexively, shivering at the slightest scrape of teeth against his shoulder. Instantly, the sensation changed, feeling the warm gusts of Harry's breath in the wake of the other boy's hot mouth.   
  


His face was back in the pillow, now; funny sounds that he couldn't seem to stop kept escaping his throat. He bit his lip, but that didn't help--Harry was making funny sounds too, and for a moment Ron wondered what would happen if someone walked in their room, and then he didn't think at all anymore.   
  


Twisting, feeling Harry's grip on his robes tighten and then lessen, missing the pressure of the lips as they fell away from his neck, Ron turned his body over with a nudge of his elbow. Lying side by side on the bed now, his breath stirring jet-black hair, Harry's mouth teasing and licking and nipping along his neck, favoring his pulse. His arm around Harry's waist, Harry's knee slowly slipping up the space between his legs.   
  


He couldn't seem to get enough air no matter how fast he breathed, not when his hands had slipped underneath Harry's robes, not when Harry's knee and then his hand was right...there, not when thousands of images and sensations from the last few months came flooding back, and the only way to banish them was to do this, and feel this; to feel Harry in this way and let Harry feel him in this way and let himself feel this...   
  


Harry's mouth covered his, half-smothering his final cry as the world rocked, pleasure spiking and then smoothing. He lay there, eyes closed, hearing Harry's ragged breath in his ear, sliding his fingers up into the other boy's hair, stroking the impossible strands.   
  


So. This was what it could be like.   
  


Strands of hair tickled his cheek, raising goose bumps on his skin and, on impulse, he leaned over, pressing his lips to Harry's cheek, smiling slightly at the slightest rasp of stubble against his lips. He fell back against the pillow, one arm slung over Harry's waist, arching his neck, eyes closed, as a familiar hand cupped the back of his neck, toying with the short strands of hair.   
  


"What are we gonna do?"   
  


He was mumbling words into the pillow again, fighting wearily against the return of a thousand old worries and the arrival of a thousand new ones. Sirius had agreed to help them, but now there was Ginny, and Neville...   
  


"What do you mean?"   
  


Blearily he opened one eye, peering curiously at the boy on the pillow next to him.   
  


"It doesn't change anything. Even if your sister or Neville blab about our relationship to the whole school...it shouldn't matter. It won't affect the important stuff."   
  


He opened his mouth, planning to throw a good-natured jibe at Harry's unintentional reference to their relationship as non-important--and yawned instead, nuzzling his face deeper into Harry's pillow. Hogsmeade, Sirius, Fred and George, Ginny, Hermione...the day played itself out before his eyes as he fell asleep, still feeling Harry's fingers twined in his hair, the rise and fall of the other boy's chest under his arm .   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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(Peers tentatively around computer screen, gaging the emotions of the readers)   
  


Errr...yes. *clears throat* Ummm....very sorry, really; had no idea this chapter would take so long. Summertime severely cuts back on my free time (ahhh, the irony), my computer time, and the last few months of my real life have been bloody *unbelievable.* Let me put it this way: the unexpected (and unwelcome) return of *two* ex-boyfriends into my life wasn't the most stressful event of the past few months. It wasn't even in the top ten. I will write and update when ever possible; unfortunately, that won't be very often. Kudos to all of you who have stuck with this story from the beginning; you are the type of reviewers every writer loves. Keep it up! 

(Subtle hint, that.) 

  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	14. Fears

Author: Jadea   
  


Summary: Beats me. (Why does it beat you?) Sorry. Roommate-speak...   
  


Disclaimer: TANM. They Are Not Mine. According to my "Deal With The Devil" series, Order of the Phoenix does not exist. Sirius is alive and well, Ron has always been a kick-ass quidditch keeper, and Draco Malfoy doesn't waste his time making up stupid songs.   
  


Rating. Rrrrrrrrrr, Matey.   
  


Dedication: To anyone who's still reading this story after its, err...hiatus. Err...sorry? Blame work? Blame my roommate? Blame my family? Hmmm...nope. Blame me. (I'm *not* passing the buck this time).   
  
  
  
  
  


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Grey, rotted hands clung to the boys hair, tangling almost wantonly in the strands. Face framed by those rotting fingers, Malfoy's normally pallid complexion was stark white--the hue of someone long dead.   
  


But Malfoy wasn't dead.   
  


Yet.   
  


One rotting finger stroked down, teasing the line of Malfoy's mouth, parting the grim lips as if they were water. The boys breathing--heavy and ragged and nauseatingly familiar to his ears--sounded deafeningly loud, echoing the gusts of air rasping through Harry's own lungs.   
  


Even crouched down, the figure of the Dementor loomed over the other boy, one hand clutching Malfoy's chin in a weirdly reprimanding gesture. A flash of memory stung Harry's mind; Malfoy's cold hands gripping Ron's chin in the exact same way.   
  


Pale eyes wide, fury flashing through them but pinned, trapped by three wands around him and the hellish creature with its fingers curling further into his hair, Draco Malfoy screamed.   
  


Next to him Ron jerked, his entire body jolting reflexively away from the scene in front of him. The red-head was breathing almost as desperately as Malfoy, his face flushed with exertion, eyes wild. One of Harry's hands stole out, seeking Ron's shoulder, but he jerked it back. The other boy seemed to hum with energy, suffused with electricity, and as one dead hand grasped the top of the Dementor's hood to pull it down, Ron's blue eyes blazed.   
  


An inarticulate scream of rage and terror, Harry watched Malfoy's fingers scrambling frantically for a wand that wasn't there. Unwilling to look away, Harry's hand slid into his pocket, smoothing the unfamiliar grain of the mahagony wand that had, once upon a time, stolen his breath and almost his life.   
  


Fitting, that Draco Malfoy should die while Harry held the blond boys last hope in the hip pocket of his jeans.   
  


The grey cloth of the Dementor's hood slid down and despite himself Harry shivered, feeling wretched memories, filthy and cold as black ice, worming their way through his blood.   
  


His parents. The Chamber. Cedric. Malfoy. Ron...   
  


The frozen breath of the Dementor rattled, and Harry shivered, feeling his cold breath sharpen in his chest. How much of the chill came from the Dementor, and how much from his own memories?   
  


He hated being cold. Hated it more than anything else in the world--except maybe the boy in front of him--but here, in this moment, with the chill and darkness of the Dementor, some dark part of him embraced it, gloried in it. Once again, the vapor of his breath sent clouds of warm air from his mouth; once again he was shivering, even in his winter cloak, even without Malfoy's spell. Only this time it was Malfoy who was trapped, horrified realization finally dawning in his cruel eyes.   
  


Rotted hands gripped the other boy's hair, tugging his chin back, seeking easy access to the mouth which was at the moment issuing dark threats and desperate promises.   
  


Unaware of himself, Harry took a step closer, feet dragging on the frozen ground. In the darkest corner of his mind, he noticed the warmth of Ron's body leave his side as the other boy stayed back...but he had to see this. Had to. He craved it, desired it like he had desired nothing before in his entire life.   
  


Hands clenched into fists with in his robes, Harry took another step closer.   
  


Draco Malfoy screamed for his last time.   
  


Then...   
  


A flash of intense light washed around them, sending a gust of warm, bright air, ruffling Harry's hair, momentarily thawing his half-frozen skin. It was the antithesis of the Dementor; everything the Dementor was not, and an image flashed through Harry's dulled mind, there and gone almost instantly -- Ron's red hair, damp from sweat, curled around Harry's fingers while they moved, slow, wet, and gasping -- and as the heat surged in his body, he watched the Dementor flinch away from the light. Grasping and clawing and clinging, tearing out strands of Draco Malfoy's pale hair, yielding his prize agonizingly, fingers still coiled. Slowly, slowly the creature retreated, slinking low to the ground...but it did not dissapear. It's appetite was whetted; it had cupped Malfoy's chin in its palm, tasted the beginnings of whatever breath of a soul the other boy possessed. It merely slunk away, watching them from the shadows among the trees.   
  


Draco Malfoy collapsed, one hand clenched tightly over his mouth, pale as death.   
  


Harry blinked, unable to fully comprehend the image before him, the sight of Malfoy living and breathing, fingers digging narrow grooves into the frozen ground. Fury sang through his nerves, a harsh, hot anger warming him even more than the gust of warm light that had momentarily flashed through the clearing. He was still alive. Malfoy was still alive, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the ground, eyes closed, pale hair clumped to the sides of his face. Still alive. He should be dead now, gone, a living corpse. Paying the price Harry had set for him. Reeling with shock he wheeled around, cursing and yet not at all surprised at the sight of Ron, wand out, a dissipating silver stream issuing from its tip. Not surprised at all.   
  


Ron's words were soft, but they cut off the sound of Malfoy's labored breathing as sharply and efficently as a knife.   
  


"Stop. We're not going to do it. Not this way."   
  
  
  


_______________________________________________   
  
  
  
  
  


Harry awoke to a blinding sea of orange.   
  


A sea of orange that muttered and breathed in and out and snored and smelled remarkably like Ron Weasley.   
  


Feeling like his hand weighed a thousand pounds, Harry extracted his right arm from under Ron's side, rubbing irritably at his eyes. They were going to have to talk about this. Waking up to Ron in his bed was fine...more than fine. Waking up to Ron's shockingly ugly Chudley Cannons shirt first thing in the morning was something else.   
  


Wait...it *was* morning, wasn't it?   
  


He blinked, eyelashes brushing against the fabric of Ron's shirt. Wincing as his arm tingled with pins and needles, he seized the bed curtains and tugged them back.   
  


The shadows were deepening, but it was not yet fully dark outside. They had only been asleep for a couple of hours.   
  


He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. Normally he didn't take naps, and now he remembered why; rather than feeling refreshed afterwards, he usually felt drugged, his head full, limbs heavy and fingers clumsy.   
  


"Harry?"   
  


Neville's soft voice nearly scared him out of his skin; he felt his heart jump in his chest. Blindly, his palm searched for the frames of his glasses, fingers fumbling them on to his face. 

"Neville! I didn't know you were in here!"   
  


The shorter boy nodded, hands stuck in to his pockets all the way up to his elbows, it seemed.   
  


"I haven't been in here too long...you and Ron have been sleeping--"   
  


Neville broke off suddenly, a light but perfectly distinct shade of pink rising in his plump cheeks. Incredibly, Harry found himself biting back a smile at Neville's obvious embarassment. No doubt Ron would be sniggering at the sight, Harry thought, and glanced down at the lanky figure currently sprawled over three-fourths of his bed. Harry's bed. Their bed.   
  


Neville's quick brown eyes caught the glance, and he blushed even deeper, clearing his throat.   
  


"Ummm...Harry...you should know that, well, I ran into--well, that is, Hermione and...and Ginny and I ran into Draco Malfoy this afternoon. Well, we didn't literally run into him; even I'm not *that* clumsy, he was looking for us and found us outside of Honeydukes--did you know they got the new special Christmas Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans already, and its only November? I bought a whole--"   
  


"Neville."   
  


Mercifully, the other boy shut up, looking as relieved as Harry felt.   
  


"It's ok, Neville; Hermione told us what happened after Ron and Ginny had an...err...*discussion*"   
  


Harry winced, his restless hands brushing the hair out of his eyes. Ron and Ginny's 'discussion' had been very loud and, well, unpleasant. Especially since most of it centered around *him.*Neither Ron nor Ginny had pulled any punches, and the enmity between them had surprised him. He knew Ron and Ginny loved each other, but evidently they also knew, from years of experience, exactly where to cut to make the other person bleed...   
  


Neville was nodding, eyes round and earnest.   
  


"Yeah; I know; I saw Ginny in the Great Hall at Dinnertime. Boy," he whistled, shaking his head, "I'm happy for you and Ron, Harry, really, I really am, but I don't envy you dealing with the Weasley temper. Michael Corner said the same thing; he dated Ginny for a while, you know, and he said--"   
  


Harry shook his head, trying to digest Neville's words, feeling slow and groggy from his nap.   
  


"Michael...Michael Corner? Isn't he in Ravenclaw?"   
  


Neville nodded his affirmation, biting his lip nervously, eyes darting around the room, flitting from bed to curtain to floor, avoiding Harry.   
  


A suspicion began to form in Harry's mind, unthought one instant, there and fully formed the next. Tiredly, he asked the question he already knew the answer to.   
  


"Did you tell Michael Corner about me and Ron, Neville?"   
  


The chubby boy shook his head.   
  


"Did Hermione?"   
  


Another wordless negative.   
  


"Did Draco Malfoy?"   
  


Neville actually winced at Draco's name, his hand tightening for a moment around the hickory wand in the pocket of his jeans, before shaking his head.   
  


"Was it Ginny?"   
  


The small, sympathetic smile on Neville's soft face was the only affirmation Harry needed, but Neville decided to enlighten him.   
  


"She...well, she looked pretty angry, even at Dinner time, Harry. And Lavender asked where you and Ron were and before Hermione could say anything, Ginny sorta...um...blurted it out. Lavender--she actually squealed, and she told Parvati, who ran over to tell her sister Padma, in Ravenclaw; she was the one who told Michael Corner and Cho Chang--"   
  


Harry shook his head, only half-listening as Neville described the chain-letter spread of information about him and Ron. He knew the Hogwarts rumor mill well, having been its subject more times than he cared to remember, and he had no doubt that by tomorrow morning the only person who *didn't* know that he and Ron were together would be Mrs. Norris.   
  


Groaning, he fell back hard against the bed, eliciting a tired, disgruntled mutter from the red-haired ugly-orange-shirt-wearing bed-hog at his side.   
  


"Harry, I get enough bruises on the pitch; I don't need any more from when we're in bed together, especially if we're not actually doing anything goo--oh, hell!   
  


Ron's sleepy voice cut off abruptly, eyes opening and widening suddenly at the sight of Neville, and he gave the other boy a weak smile. 

"Ummm, I mean; "Oh, hello, Neville."   
  


Harry couldn't help it; despite the fact that the whole school now knew about him and Ron, despite Ginny's vindictiveness, despite everything else...the look on Ron's face was too much. He snickered. Ron glared back, his face still flushed from sleep, hair mussed, eyes jumping back and forth between the two of them.   
  


"Oh, so this is funny, is it?"   
  


Harry nodded, noting the color rising in Ron's cheeks, feeling something wicked and hot in spark in him at the sight of Ron sprawled on the bed next to him. Moving with the speed that only a Seeker could manage, Harry's hand darted out, clutching Ron's Cannon's shirt in one fist, and tugged him across half the bed, chests colliding as Harry kissed him hard.   
  


Ron let out a startled breath into his mouth, and Harry tasted sugar on his tongue before the other boy jerked away, the color in his cheeks now a dark flush. A jumble of voices collided in the dim room.   
  


"Harry, what the hell? Neville--"   
  


"Neville already knows, Ron--"   
  


"Can I look now?"   
  


Harry glanced at Neville, and again fought the urge to laugh. This shouldn't be funny, *nothing* about this situation should be funny, but it was just so absurd, Neville standing there at the foot of their bed with his hands over his eyes.   
  


"Yes Neville, you can look now." Ron growled, shoving himself into a more comfortable sitting position. "Unless, that is, Harry decides to attack me again."   
  


Something in Harry's stomach went very cold at Ron's last words, and his breath caught sharply in his throat. He twisted, shifting his position on the bed so that he could see the other boy's face, and then Neville spoke.   
  


"I think I should leave. I just...I want you both to know; I don't mind your...being together; not that I, ummm...I mean, I'm not going to stop talking to you two because of it, you know, and I hope--I don't think Seamus and Dean are going to either. I...just hope it won't be too weird--I gotta go."   
  


Despite stumbling and getting slightly tangled up in the bed curtains, Neville made it to the door in one piece, hand lingering on the door knob.   
  


"Umm...we're all right, aren't we? Still friends?"   
  


Ron nodded, a tired but sincere smile directed at their friend. Harry ignored them both, the cold feeling in his stomach now accompanied by a rush of anger.   
  


"'Course we are, Neville. If you weren't here, who'd give Harry and me flying lessons?"   
  


Neville snorted, grinning slightly and noticeably relaxing at Ron's joke. "Yeah. Right after I help you study for your Potions Finals."   
  


Ron grinned and Neville slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him.   
  


"So what--what the hell, Harry?"   
  


Feet and hands feeling leaden, Harry shoved himself violently out of his own bed, glaring furiously down at Ron, for once possessing the height advantage.   
  


Ron's blue eyes were completely bewildered, and for some reason that angered Harry even more. Words stuck in his throat, and he had to close his eyes and look away for a moment before he could speak with a semblance of calm.   
  


"*Attack*" you? Is *that* the way you think of it?"   
  


Ron only looked at him, blue eyes puzzled, before realization set in. He shook his head, the longer strands of his hair flying haphazardly.   
  


"C'mon Harry, that's not what I meant. I just--"   
  


"Said that I attacked you."   
  


Irritation stamped across his features, Ron rolled his eyes and Harry resisted the urge to smack him on the back of his head. Very, very carefully, Harry took a step away from his best friend.   
  


"I don't know why you're reacting this way. It's just a stupid *word*, that's all--"   
  


"But why did you say it?"   
  


"I don't know, it just--slipped out, I didn't mean anything by it--"   
  


"But why did you say it?"   
  


"Get *over* it. It doesn't mean ANYTHING!"   
  


"BUT WHY DID YOU SAY IT?"   
  


They were both yelling now, glaring at each other across the expanse of Harry's crimson bedspread. The cold feeling lodged in the pit of Harry's stomach grew when Ron finally dropped his gaze, glaring ineffectually at the blankets.   
  


"I told you, I don't know *why* I said it that way. I just said something stupid, and its not like its the first time that's ever happened, so I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of it."   
  


Harry stood very, very still, eyes fixed on Ron's face. There was something there, something he was going to have to drag out of the red-headed boy on the bed across from him.   
  


Lips pressed together, arms folded, Harry said nothing. Ron stared at the bedspread, words emerging in a bitter, sarcastic tone that was barely audible.   
  


"My God, you're acting like Hermione; 'It's a *telephone*, Ron, not a fellytone; if you'd take Muggle Studies you'd *know* that.' It doesn't mean anything; it's just a stupid word, and what the hell would you call it? I didn't expect you to kiss me like that; you just grabbed my shirt and pulled me over; I would at least have thought you'd give me a bit of *warning*...   
  


His voice trailed off and Ron shifted on the bed, fingers plucking at the sleeves of his Cannons shirt. Heart hammering in his chest, lips numb, Harry heard the words before he was even aware he'd spoken them:   
  


"Ron, are you scared of me?"   
  


"WHAT? NO!"   
  


A look of utter panic flickered across Ron's face and he scrambled across the bed towards Harry, shaking his head vehemently.   
  


"NO! I love you, you big stupid idiotic prat, and you just startled me, that's all. That's all."   
  


Feeling some of the anger drain out of him at the sheer panic in Ron's eyes, Harry crouched beside the bed, searching Ron's face, struggling to find the words.   
  


"Ron, I love you. I can't stand the thought of hurting you. You flinch, or freeze, sometimes, when we, you know...Are...are you sure?"   
  


"Sure? Sure about...about what?"   
  


Harry paused, unable to speak the words any louder than a whisper.   
  


"About...'us'."   
  


His best friend stared back at him, face pale.   
  


"Crikey, Harry...now that the whole school knows about us, are you breaking up with me?"   
  


Frustrated, Harry slammed a fist down on the bed, well away from the blankets Ron was tangled in.   
  


"NO! You *know* I'm not. And don't try to change the subject. I need to know; if you're not scared of me...is it the things we do? Is that it?"   
  


"Harry, I just told you, I am *not* scared of it--"   
  


He cut Ron off, silently willing the other boy to look him in the eye.   
  


"No, Ron. You said that you're not scared of *me*. Please, please, tell me the truth; do some of the things we do make you uncomfortable?"   
  


The silence stretched long and thin between them and Harry closed his eyes in defeat.   
  


"No."   
  


Startled, Harry didn't move when he felt Ron's hands, larger than his own, tug at his sleeves. He simply crouched there, eyes closed, listening to the nuances of Ron's voice.   
  


"You don't make me uncomfortable. You never do. And when we...you know..."   
  


The embarrassed smile in Ron's voice was what finally prompted Harry to open his eyes; the red-head was leaning so far over the edge of the bed, clutching at Harry's sleeves, that he was in very serious danger of tumbling off the bed and into Harry's lap. But his eyes were solemn.   
  


"I love it when you kiss me. It's like...watching the Cannons win, or blocking a really tough shot in quidditch, or biting into a chocolate frog...but its better. It's like no matter how much I have, I can't get enough; the more I get, the more I want, the more I want you..."   
  


It was probably one of the most unromantic speeches that had ever been uttered in the history of Hogwarts, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry knew he should have been laughing uncontrollably, or at least indignant over Ron comparing his kisses to the almost non-existent wins of a perennial loser.   
  


But all other feelings were swamped under a wave of warm, rushing relief at the sincerity in Ron's words, and he tugged at Ron's hands, laughing at the other boy's muffled yell as he tumbled off the bed, catching himself with his hands on either side of Harry's body. Then Ron's face was pressed against his neck, and Harry shivered at the movements of the other boys mouth.   
  


"I love you, you prat. I just...got a little freaked when Hermione asked if we'd, you know...and we haven't, and you said we hadn't 'yet', and I just wasn't sure...I wasn't sure when 'yet' was."   
  


He nodded, feeling Ron's warm fingers on the collar of his robes. One hand stole into that vibrant red hair, glinting even in the dark room.   
  


"'Yet' is whenever you want it to be, Ron."   
  


Ron nuzzled at his neck, lips leaving feather light touches on Harry's skin. He closed his eyes tight, wondering how something could possibly feel so wonderful and yet so unbearable at the same time.   
  


Then Ron's mouth became more insistent and everything else--Ginny, Sirius, Malfoy and even the strange dream that had awoken him earlier--was forgotten.   
  


For the moment.   
  


  
  


*********************************************************   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Boy, Ron and Harry sure fight a lot in this story, don't they? Guess the strain of plotting to kill someone can get to anyone. Poor boys have a lot of issues to work out. Ummm, yes, anyway...   
  


Seriously; I am sorry for the delay. My full time job (as well as some other circumstances) chewed me up and spit me out this summer. Now for the relaxing and entertaining process of applying to Grad School! (Insert sarcasm here). I don't know when the next update will be, but I make two promises; 1. it won't take as long as this one and 2. I now have more time to work on this story other than the ten minutes a week I had this summer. I hope everybody's in a torture-Malfoy mood.   
  


Oh, yeah...review? I know its my own fault, but its been so long...   
  



	15. Sightings

Author: Jadea   
  


Synopsis: See Ron. See Ginny. See Ron and Ginny fight. See Ron and Ginny and Pansy fight. See Harry worry. See Draco Malfoy gloat. See Sirius...   
  


Disclaimer: I'm not JKR, and none of her stuff is mine. It's for the best, really.   
  


Dedication: Hee Hee. There's a cameo in here. See if you can spot it. (It's pretty blatant.)   
  
  
  


***************************************************   
  
  
  
  
  


//Well, that was an exquisite lesson in torture.//   
  


Scowling, Ron stopped in the middle of the teeming hallway, shoving the strap of his schoolbag up his shoulder with one hand.   
  


Breakfast. How in the name of Merlin could *breakfast* have been so weird?   
  


If he had had any reason to doubt Neville's story about Ginny's revealing their entire secret to the school, it was dead now.   
  


Dead silence had covered the Great Hall the instant he and Harry walked in for breakfast. Then a few whistles, a few cat-calls, a few words he chose not to hear, and hushed murmuring. It felt like people were watching every bite he took until he had to fight back the urge to yell "Food Fight!" or just snog Harry on the spot.   
  


Dear Merlin, but today was going to *suck*.   
  


Some fourth or fifth year Ravenclaw, Martha or Mary or Marjorie, some 'm' name, slammed into him from behind, damn near knocking him off his feet and sending him half-crashing into a distracted Harry.   
  


"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--I just--I was in such a hurry, I wasn't watching where I was going--I knocked your bag over--"   
  


"You ok, Ron?"   
  


He nodded, half-listening to the Minnie or Mandy babble about how sorry she was. Harry had grabbed on his shoulder to keep him from tumbling over, and Harry's hand had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the whole hallway, judging by the number of people who were now staring at it. One bloke stared a bit too long and Ron barely resisted the urge to flip him off.   
  


Dear Merlin, was she *still* babbling?   
  


"I had to run to get to History of Magic; we're studying Circles of Power, you know, Wizarding Circles, and there's an essay due tomorrow--"   
  


There was something in that babbling stream that was-just-so-WRONG.   
  


"You mean you were running through the hall to get to *Binn's* class? Are you cracked?"   
  


She smiled at him, a pretty smile that touched her eyes, and suddenly it wasn't just Harry's hand *on* his shoulder anymore; it was Harry's arm *around* his shoulders and, strangely enough, said arm was tugging him slightly away from Misty. Or Mitsie. Or--what the hell *was* her name?   
  


"It's ok; we'll pick up Ron's stuff, you can get to class since you're in such a hurry."   
  


Ron arched an eyebrow at the shorter boy, but said nothing as (Muffy?) ran off down the hall. Curious (and wanting to avoid Transfiguration class as long as possible) Ron was just about to ask if Harry wore green eyes to match his jealousy when he spotted a flash of red hair down the hall.   
  


Scooping his back-pack up he practically sprinted across the hall, ignoring Harry's questioning yell, blocking Ginny's exit with one lanky arm. She merely glared at him and Ron glared back, already feeling his temper catching. He knew--knew--that Hermione had told her that he and Harry didn't want their relationship revealed to the school. She had no right--no fucking right--to look hurt.   
  


"We need to talk."   
  


She merely arched a red-gold eyebrow at him, tilting her head.   
  


"Are you sure? You could be in danger; I might sick a basilisk on you."   
  


Ok, fine. Maybe she had a *little* bit of reason to look hurt. But he didn't want to fucking hear it. Not with the whole fucking school looking over his shoulder. And placing bets on whether or not he and Harry had shagged yet.   
  


"Umm...Ron? Transfiguration?"   
  


That was Harry at his shoulder, nodding in the other direction and refusing to look at Ginny. From the way the other boy was standing, staring intently at the walls, Ron could tell he wasn't the only one currently infuriated with the girl standing in front of him, glaring daggers at them both.   
  


"Go on. I need to have a *discussion* with Ginny. I'll catch you up at class."   
  


Harry's green eyes widened; he opened his mouth to protest, then glanced at Ginny and shut it.   
  


"Right. Be...be careful."   
  


Only half-hearing Harry's words, he glared harder at his sister, wishing that he was six again so that he could just shove her down and she could pull his hair and it could be over.   
  


"You are such a fucking tattle-tale."   
  


"And you are such a fucking idiot."   
  


They were both talking in whispers, but somehow he didn't think that was going to last very long. People buzzed around them, talking and pointing, hurrying off to class.   
  


"You know, I don't know you're being such a baby about this. Hermione was perfectly fine with it--"   
  


Ginny smirked, laughing softly into her palm.   
  


"What?" 

"Oh, yeah, Hermione is *really* fine with the fact that you and Harry are fucking. That just about made her sixth year, it did."   
  


His eyes narrowed and he dropped his bag, crossing his arms over his chest. He was not going to ask. He would not ask.   
  


"First of all, Harry and I are not--and what the hell is *that* supposed to mean?"   
  


Well, fuck.   
  


"She is not fine, you...you..." Ginny stuttered, shaking her head. "She's hurt, really hurt that you two didn't tell her; that it came with no warning, and then you get all defensive whenever anyone wants to know what's going on with you two--"   
  


"Anyone? Anyone! You told the entire fucking school!"   
  


She simply smiled.   
  


"So? I saved you and Harry from coming out to the whole school--"   
  


"This is a hallway. If you two Weasels are unable to find a private place inside to hiss and claw at each other, go out in the dirt where you belong."   
  


The familiar, sickly sweet voice had a sharp bite to it and Ron started, jerking his head around and breathing a sigh of relief when he realized that it was simply Pansy, and no one else. He was about to retort when Pansy smirked at him. She was probably trying to look intimidating, but it only scrunched up her face worse than ever. 

"Where's your fuck-buddy, Weasley? He bored of you already?"   
  


Ron tensed, hands clenching reflexively into fists before he shoved them in his pockets, glaring back and forth between Pansy and his sister.   
  


//It's Pansy Parkinson. She's a girl. You can't hit her. It's Pansy Parkinson, she may be dog ugly, but she's still a girl, (I think) and you can't hit her...that's not right...//   
  


"Well, Parkinson, at least, unlike you, I *can* get a man."   
  


Both Pansy and Ginny stared at him dumbfounded, and Ron had to bite back a grin at his own response. *That* was one he'd never used before. Pansy flushed, then smiled sweetly, examining her freshly painted nails.   
  


"Oh, congratulations, you're fucking Potter. Probably because your little Mudblood bitch wouldn't join you for a threesome. Tell me...when you're taking it up the ass, do you think, 'he should really pay me more for this?'"   
  


//Don't hit her. Don't hit her. Don't hit her. Don't...//   
  


"Get the hell out of here, Parkinson."   
  


Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ginny, glaring at Pansy with flat contempt in her eyes and wand in hand, though pointed at the floor. Her color was high, eyes completely focused on the Slytherin standing a few feet away from them. Pansy had nudged a sore spot for both of them, digging at the Weasley poverty.   
  


"You're just jealous that, unlike you, Ron can actually get laid without paying someone for it, aren't you, troll face?"   
  


"Ginny, Harry and I haven't--"   
  


"I heard you offered it to Malfoy and he turned you down. Guess you should have chosen someone who needed the galleons a bit more."   
  


Pansy frowned, eyes narrowing dangerously at Ginny, and Ron began to scowl. Had they completely forgotten he was even here? God, he was in the cat-fight from hell. And he'd thought *breakfast* had been bad.   
  


"Is that an invitation, Weasley? Because, unlike your disgusting brother, I don't fuck members of my same sex."   
  


"And what sex would that be?"   
  


Ron closed his mouth, disgruntled, glaring at his sister. God *damn* it. Ginny had stolen his line, right out from under him.   
  


"Well, like your brother, I don't fuck women. Not that I'd take Potter. He's a filthy half-blood."   
  


Ron's eyes narrowed dangerously, suddenly feeling more furious then he had all morning.   
  


"So you can have your little fuck-partner, Weasley."   
  


Ginny opened her mouth, no doubt to steal another one of his lines, but he beat her to the punch, glaring and yelling at both girls.   
  


"Goddamit, both of you! I don't care what the fuck someone said; not that it is *any* of your business, but HARRY AND I HAVE NOT HAD SEX YET!   
  


Ginny only blinked at him, the flush of anger slowly receding from her cheeks.   
  


Pansy glanced at him speculatively, eyes sparkling.   
  


"Really?"   
  


He glared back.   
  


"That...is none of your fucking business. C'mon Ginny. Let's go."   
  


Ginny said nothing. Eyes clearing, she glanced back and forth between him and Pansy, and Ron wasn't entirely sure which one she was glaring at harder. He swore softly as she swept up her bag and stalked down the hall without a look back.   
  


"Well, hell."   
  
  
  
  
  


_____________________________________________________   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"Did you hear--?"   
  


"I can't believe--"   
  


"He's *so* cute! Why does he have to like guys--?"   
  


"I wouldn't mind watching them kiss--"   
  


"It's...sick."   
  


"Blimey. That's just--"   
  


"Can't stand it--"   
  


"Should be expelled--"   
  


"Fucking--"   
  


"Haven't done it yet--"   
  


"Unnatural--"   
  


"Disgusting--"   
  


"Ewwwwwwww--"   
  


"I think it's sweet--"   
  


"You're *surprised*? I've seen this coming ever since their fourth year--"   
  


"Total shock--"   
  


"What Granger thinks--"   
  


"Ron--"   
  


"Harry--"   
  


"On top?"   
  


He wondered if there was a spell that could render a person temporarily deaf. He certainly hoped so.   
  


He had heard it all in the halls; mutters and whispers issuing from mouths half-hidden by palms and sleeves and long hair.   
  


You would have thought that *he* was the one teaching Transfiguration, considering the undivided attention he was receiving from his class mates. The fact that Ron was absent piqued rather than dampened their curiosity. At least his fellow Gryffindor's weren't muttering some of the same things as the people in the hall...yet.   
  


Luckily McGonnagal wasn't lecturing; they were supposed to be reading their texts and comparing their findings with a partner. Except, of course, that his partner was currently in the middle of a row with his tale-bearing baby sister.   
  


He bit down a bit too hard on the tip of his quill, staring at the book and not seeing it. Add Ginny to the list of troubles swarming around them. Something to keep company with Hermione and classes and Sirius and Dementors and--   
  


Oh, fuck.   
  


He only resisted the urge to smack himself on the forehead by knowing that the rest of the class was watching him, and would instantly assume he was a masochist.   
  


Dementors. Fucking *Dementors*.   
  


//And Ron didn't know how to conjure the Patronus charm.//   
  


Exhausted, he slumped in his chair, ignoring McGonnagal's pointed stare.   
  


//I'll have to teach him.//   
  


Of course; there was no way Harry was going to let Ron near a single Dementor unless he could protect himself.   
  


//Ron, conjuring a Patronus...//   
  


The vision danced mockingly beyond his reach at the back of his tired, overloaded mind, and he closed his eyes, trying to pin it down.   
  


//Malfoy. Dementor. Dementor. Cold. Warm. Ron. Light...Patronus...Malfoy?//   
  


It was there, suddenly, as clearly as if he'd just woken up--the dream he'd had just yesterday evening, before the fight had completely driven it from his mind.   
  


He sat bolt upright in his desk, ignoring McGonnagal's approving nod. Hands fisted in his hair, he stared at his Transfiguration text, seeing the dark branches of the Forbidden Forest, the dissipating silver stream of an unidentifiable Patronus gleaming through the trees.   
  


//Ron had stopped it.//   
  


In the dream; Ron had stopped it. Right before the Dementor had begun to suck out Malfoy's soul, Ron had stopped it. He had saved Malfoy.   
  


In the dream. In *his* dream, Ron had saved Malfoy.   
  


Why?   
  


//Just a dream.//   
  


Maybe.   
  


Harry was surprised to realize he was folding and unfolding the corner of his scroll, and forced his hands still.   
  


//It was just a dream. Ron would never do that. I know he wouldn't. He wants Malfoy dead; he told me so himself.//   
  


//It was just a stupid dream.//   
  


"Mr. Weasley, you're late."   
  


Minerva McGonnagal's strict tone cut through the low hum of the classroom, students swivelling around to stare at the object of her displeasure. Harry didn't turn as Ron mumbled an excuse about family and was docked five points before sliding into the chair next to him.   
  


"Hey."   
  


Ron glanced at him through the corner of his eye, blinking away his long hair, and in that second Harry made a decision. He would not ask Ron about dream. He didn't want to bring it up, add another point of contention to the stress they were already buckling under. He and Ron had fought more in the past two months then they had for their previous six years of friendship--about Hogsmeade, about Sirius, about Hermione, about sex--and the last thing they needed was a huge row over some stupid, meaningless *dream.*   
  


Scribbling the note quickly on a stray piece of parchment, Harry palmed it off to Ron with an ease only six years of practice could achieve. 

~~We need to start 'Patronus' lessons for you soon. How's your sister?~~   
  


Waiting until McGonnagal was busy explaining a particularly difficult passage to Lavender Brown, Ron unfolded and read the message, scratching out a quick reply and nudging it over to Harry.   
  


~~Sounds good. Still pissed. Doesn't Pansy Parkinson kinda look like a troll?~~   
  
  
  
  
  


_____________________________________________________   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Ron sighed, pushing his grapefruit around his plate.   
  


Grapefruit. Bloody Grapefruit.   
  


Hermione, evidently feeling a bit left out due to his and Harry's new relationship, had flung herself into SPEW with a fervor that made her previous efforts pale by comparison. According to an apologetic Dobby, who had dropped by the Gryffindor Sixth Year Boys Dorm Room last night rather...unexpectedly, she had finally pushed more than a few elves over the edge and, in retaliation, they were sending nothing but fruit and vegetables up the Gryffindor table for the next three days.   
  


Their best friend wasn't particularly popular at the Gryffindor table at the moment, and while Ron couldn't deny his own annoyance at eating like a bloody bird for the next three days, he hadn't said anything to Hermione. Ginny's words from yesterday kept nagging at him, and he wondered morosely as he pushed his grapefruit around his plate just how 'OK' Hermione was with him and Harry. Just the thought of how excluded he would feel if Harry and Hermione started dating each other sent his stomach twisting into knots.   
  


Hermione's status as a pariah had one benefit; there was plenty of space around the three of them at the Gryffindor table, and for a while he and Harry could pretend that the glances and whispers in their direction were actually directed at someone else. Maybe some of them even were.   
  


Ignoring the rumbling of his stomach, Ron nudged Hermione's ankle with his foot, trying to drag her away from the book she was using as a shield.   
  


"C'mon, 'Mione. It's *breakfast*. Not even *you* can read History of Magic before eight a.m...it's unhealthy. Binns didn't die of old age; he died of *boredom*, from listening to himself lecture."   
  


She merely shook her head at him, not even deigning to look up from the text. "I want to finish this before class, Ron, in case Professor Binns asks a question about the goblin rebellion of 1507."   
  


Disbelieving, Ron caught Harry's eye, anticipating a small smirk or the obligatory eye-roll...but Harry wasn't paying attention to either him or Hermione. Following his best friends gaze, Ron realized with a jolt that, for the first time in months, he had sat with a view not of the windows, but of the rest of the Great Hall...including the Slytherin table, which was what had completely captured Harry's attention.   
  


//I won't look, I won't look, I don't care...//   
  


Paper rustled as Hermione turned another page. Over her shoulder he could see the heavily populated Slytherin table; a sea of dark green robes. And a familiar troll-faced girl whispering in the ear of an even more familiar blonde-haired bastard.   
  


He didn't need Pansy's glance and smirk to know the subject of their conversation; he'd figured it out the instant he saw her practically climbing all over Malfoy, whispering in his ear.   
  


Why? Why had he told Pansy and Ginny anything? It was none of their damn business what Harry and he were, or were not, doing. Not their business, not the schools, and sure as hell not Draco fucking Malfoy's.   
  


Pansy pulled away, a simpering smiled pasted across her face, and Ron fiercely regretted not smacking her the day before. Just once.   
  


Then...then *he* looked up and met Ron's eyes, and for a split second Ron froze.   
  


It was a look he'd seen several times before, all times that he didn't particularly want to remember.   
  


That same mocking, triumphant look he'd had, when he'd tricked Ron in the Great Hall...   
  


And in the cave.   
  


Sweating lightly, Ron tore his gaze away, shoving himself away from the table with so much force that Hermione actually glanced up from her reading.   
  


"Harry, let's go."   
  


The other boy stared at him, curious, then glanced back down at his plate.   
  


"But I haven't finished my grapefruit."   
  


He rolled his eyes, tugging at the other boys sleeve.   
  


"You can finish it later. C'mon. We need to talk."   
  


Frowning slightly, Harry followed Ron out of the Great Hall, waving to Hermione as they went out the door. Ron did not look at the Slytherin table.   
  


"C'mon, in here. Quick."   
  


His watch told him they only had five minutes until their first class and he darted in the first empty classroom he saw, pulling Harry in after him, hoping that the hundreds of eyes that had been following them for the past few days were gone. He closed the door behind them, glancing around the room before focusing a bit nervously on the boy standing a few feet in front of him.   
  


"I want to have sex."   
  


"Pardon?"   
  
  
  


"I want to have sex."   
  


Harry started, then smiled, shaking his head slightly. "What, now? We've got to be in class in five minutes."   
  


"Not--not *now*, you prat. Soon. I want to do it soon."   
  


For a long time, Harry only looked at him, expression inscrutable behind his glasses, and Ron shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans to stop from picking at the sleeves of his robes.   
  


"You mean it? You really want to--"   
  


"Yes! I just told you that! I want to do it. With each other. Soon."   
  


The thoughtful, assessing look from Harry was not the one Ron had anticipated or hoped would follow his words.   
  


"Ron--you know...that I love you. And that I've--that I'm willing to wait for when you're ready. *Two* days ago, you weren't ready, and you told me so. Why--why the sudden change?"   
  


Wrenching his hands out of his pockets Ron folded his arms across his chest, hearing Harry's words and at the same time refusing to hear them. The truth was, he didn't want to tell Harry. Telling Harry meant acknowledging to himself that part of the impetus that had put those words in his mouth was the look of triumph he had received from Draco Malfoy not five minutes before.   
  


He loved Harry; he wanted Harry. But more than that, at the moment he wanted to have had sex with someone other than Draco Malfoy.   
  


He swallowed, burying the brief lump of guilt in his throat. This was what he wanted; it was what Harry wanted, and that was all that mattered.   
  


Slowly, he walked over to the other boy, brushing the black bangs away from Harry's green eyes with a hand that was trembling slightly.   
  


"This is what I want. I love you, and I want to be with you. I want to have some good memories of this year."   
  


Harry's arms slipped around his waist, and he could feel the breath of the other boy's words on his ear.   
  


"If you want this...if you *really* want this...let's find somewhere private. I don't want to get interrupted by Seamus or Neville if we're in our dorm room...or by Snape if we're in a classroom."   
  


Ron sniggered, idly playing with a strand of Harry's hair. Merlin, *nothing* could make it lie down. Impulsively, he leaned over and kissed the top of Harry's head, and Harry's hands tightened around his waist.   
  


"Hey, at least if it was Snape, there'd be a bonus. He'd drop dead of a heart attack, and we'd actually have a shot at Passing our NEWT's next year."   
  


Harry snickered, his smooth cheek pressed against Ron's slightly more stubbly one.   
  


"Let me think of something. Today or tomorrow, we're going to have to start your 'Patronus' lessons--"   
  


"And we need to talk to Dobby."   
  


Harry nodded, fingers clenched in the fabric of Ron's robes, face buried in his neck.   
  


"I'm worried about Sirius."   
  


"I know."   
  
  
  
  
  


________________________________________________________   
  
  
  


THE DAILY PROPHET   
  


Top Story   
  


Convicted murderer Sirius Black, who escaped from Azkhaban prison more than three years ago, has been spotted near the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, according to various eye-witness accounts.   
  


The Forbidden Forest lies on the boundaries of Hogwarts School grounds, and is the home of a number of dangerous, treacherous creatures. According to three eye-witness accounts, all issued in the past week, it is now also the home of mass-murderer Black, who is wanted by the Ministry of Magic, and is to be brought to the Dementors without trial in the event of capture. Albus Dumbeldore, the aging headmaster of Hogwarts School, has adamantly opposed the stationing of Dementors around the facility, and ordered them removed after they served as brief guardians for the school three years ago, when Black escaped. Current disagreements between the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge and Headmaster Dumbeldore have, however, strained relations between the Ministry and Hogwarts, and the Minister insists he is well in his rights to issue the Dementors to Hogwarts once more.   
  


"Headmaster Dumbeldore means well, but my main concern must be the safety and care of the students of Hogwarts, as well as the entire wizarding community." Minister Fudge stated yesterday, when asked about the issue. "The juridistiction of the Ministry of Magic does not stop at the gates of Hogwarts. If sightings of Black continue, I will be prepared to take any and all measures to defend the school and the community."   
  


(Story continued on page 2)   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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Well, that update was a lot sooner than the last one, dont you think? I anticipate five more chapters, and things are going to get a little more complicated as we get closer to the end. I hope you enjoy! (And review!) 


	16. Lessons

Author: Jadea   
  


Summary: Ron tries to conjure a Patronus, with Harry as his teacher.   
  


Disclaimer: TANM, baby.   
  


Dedication: To who ever gave my this cold, forcing me to stay home and work on my stories when I would *much* rather be cramming for the GRE. (Yeah, right.)   
  
  
  
  
  


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//Harry was gasping for air, shivering uncontrollably in his arms. Clouds of cold breath played against Ron's neck and he shivered, feeling Harry's cold to his bones. Harry was dying.//   
  


//Harry was dying.//   
  


"Ron?"   
  


"Harry!"   
  


Exhausted green eyes watched, concerned, as he struggled upward into a sitting position. Long red hair flew as he shook his head fiercely, trying to clear the fog that had settled there.   
  


"Blimey..."   
  


He whispered, rubbing his eyes with his hands.   
  


"It's hard--really hard, the first couple of times." Ron had to force himself to focus on Harry's words; they seemed distant, like a radio station slowly losing its signal. He kept hearing the sound of Harry's choked breathing in his ears.   
  


//Talk about your worst memories.//   
  


Accepting Harry's hands, Ron allowed the other boy to tug him to his feet, wincing. Why was it all the floors in Hogwarts had to be so fucking *hard*?   
  


"You okay?"   
  


He nodded, slipping one arm around Harry's waist with one hand and rubbing a particularly sore spot on his hip with the other.   
  


"Damn, Harry...you'd think we could have found some place a bit more comfortable. If I'd had known I was going to spend half my lesson lying on my back on the floor, I'd have at least brought my pillows."   
  


He'd hoped at least to get a smile, but Harry only nodded, still watching him carefully from behind his glasses. "It's my fault. I forgot...I took a few falls when Professor Lupin tutored me, third year. If we don't get it this time, next time we'll both bring pillows and blankets."   
  


"Hmmmm..." His arms tightening around the shorter boy, Ron's hands moved, slipping lower on Harry's back. "Pillows and blankets, you and me; an empty classroom..."   
  


That brought a smile; Ron could feel it where Harry's cheek lay pressed against his. Much to his irritation, however, the other boy didn't move his hands from Ron's shoulders.   
  


"Even with all the bedding from Gryffindor tower, this floor would still be hard as...well, stone. Besides; you have to conjure a Patronus, and soon. And I know you're attempting to distract me, so stop trying to seduce me, Weasley."   
  


Ron pulled away, glaring, but without any real heat behind it. The lousy little four-eyes had cottoned on to his little plan.   
  


"Harry, we've been doing this for an hour, and not only am I black and blue all over, I haven't even been able to conjure a *speck* of a Patronus. Whatever "dementor-replica" spell you're producing is pretty damn potent, because every time I try like *hell* to think of something happy, and *every time* I think of..."   
  


Ron trailed off, pulling away from Harry entirely.   
  


"Ron, I know this sucks. Believe me, I know." Harry's voice was strained, with more than a sense of urgency in it. Ron chose to ignore the impatience licking at its edges. "But it has to be done. You have to be able to conjure a Patronus, or we can't even let you *near* the Dementors."   
  


"Why? I'm going to be with you the whole time, aren't I? If the Dementors get out of hand--which they *shouldn't*--you can just send Prongs out there to chase them away."   
  


Harry's voice was flat and uncompromising.   
  


"And what if we get separated? I'm not willing to take that chance, and I'm not going to let *you* take it, either."   
  


"Yeah. Thanks, Mum."   
  


The other boy was glaring at him, now, and Ron ignored him, staring hard at the floor. Stupid floor; he'd fallen on it half a dozen times in the past hour, and he had the bruises on his back and arse to prove it...   
  


"Fine, fine. Let's try again. Maybe this time it'll work." Yeah, right. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts... "maybe I should just envision the Cannons winning the Championship!"   
  


Harry bit back a smile but, to his credit, said nothing.   
  


__________________________________________________________   
  
  
  


"Where have you two been?"   
  


Ron dropped into the high-backed chair with so much force Harry half-expected it to collapse. He had no doubt the boy had bruises on him, considering all the falls he'd taken, but surely sitting like *that* wouldn't help matters.   
  


"Studying."   
  


"Uh-huh." Hermione's tone clearly indicated her blatant disbelief, but she didn't look up from her arithmancy homework. "And what did you learn?"   
  


"Oy, Hermione, don't ask for details!" Seamus leaned over from the nearest study table, pointing at Harry and Ron with his quill. "I don't want to know!"   
  


Ron smirked at Seamus, snatching a stray quill away from Hermione and twirling it around his fingers. "At least Harry and I have got *some* 'studying' done recently, Seamus. What about you?"   
  


It never ceased to amaze Harry; no matter how tired or angry or frustrated Ron was, he *always* could come up with a retort.   
  


"I'll keep my 'study' habits to myself, if you do the same with yours, ok, Weasley?" Seamus shot back, but he gave Ron and Harry a grin before turning back to his own homework.   
  


Gryffindor Tower's reaction to his and Ron's relationship had been...interesting. A few of the under-class girls had actually cried, a fact which amused, irritated and astounded Harry, all at the same time. There were a few boys, all in other years, who wouldn't meet his or Ron's eyes anymore and who tended to leave the Common Room soon after they'd entered. However, the hostility or indifference that much of the school had displayed for the last few days was largely missing; together or not, Harry and Ron were still Gryffindors.   
  


Largely.   
  


A flash of red hair caught Harry's eye, glinting in the firelight. Perhaps no one but Harry could have noticed the subtle differences of shade and light that distinguished it from its sibling color. Eyes flickering over to Ron, Harry noticed that the other boy was very determinedly *not* looking over in the corner where his sister just happened to be, discussing something with the other Fifth year girls. Shifting onto a more comfortable position on the chair, Ron yawned like a cat and closed his eyes. Strangely enough, Hermione seemed to be avoiding looking over at Ginny as well.   
  


"Hey, Hermione? What's going on? Is something wrong with you and Ginny?" Ron opened his eyes and looked curiously at Hermione, watching as she reluctantly pulled her attention away from her book.   
  


Flushing, Hermione glanced at him quickly before stating, a little defensively. "If you must know, Ginny and I had a disagreement. I told her I didn't appreciate her telling your secret to the whole school, especially when I asked her not to; she got angry and said that I should have told her about you two in the first place. I told her she was acting like a child. End of story." Ron arched an eyebrow at her matter-of fact tone, and she turned to face him. "Well, she *was*. I have a lot of things to deal with right now; and one Weasley temper is all I can handle at the moment. And since I'm more used to yours...you win by default."   
  


Harry couldn't help but snicker, especially as the emotions played out across Ron's face, battling to decide whether he should be flattered or irritated. Finally, he settled for both.   
  


"Oh, fine. Thanks. My temper's not *that* bad, you know."   
  


Harry coughed loudly, drawing the attention of the nearby study table as well as Ron's glare.   
  


"Sorry, sorry. Something caught in my throat--"   
  


Hermione giggled, covering her mouth with one hand, and Harry grinned back. Ron scowled at both of them until he couldn't hold himself back anymore; rolling his eyes and breaking out into a smile.   
  


"Fine, fine. Make this 'Pick on Weasley Day.' You'll get yours, both of you..."   
  


"Speaking of 'getting' something, what are you doing for Christmas? Are you both staying here, or are you going to the Burrow?"   
  


Hermione's focus had returned to her homework again; even as she asked the question her quill scratched across the parchment, ink forming concise, neat letters that were the antithesis of Ron's messy scrawl. Watching the slightly discernible flush rise in Ron's cheeks, Harry opened his mouth before the other boy could respond. He might be getting better, but Ron was still the worst liar Harry knew. And while their story wasn't technically a lie, it was close enough to make Ron stutter and flush and look away.   
  


"We've decided to stay here. You know Mrs. Weasley invited all of us to the Burrow, but Ron doesn't want to spend Christmas at home...not if Ginny's going to be there..."   
  


Their best friend sighed, fingers plucking at her quill.   
  


"I understand. I've decided to go home; Mum and Dad have been laying a guilt-trip on me about missing Christmas with them for the past five years, and I thought you guys might like some time alone."   
  


Hermione's voice wavered suddenly, and Ron frowned.   
  


"I don't know if I'll be gone the whole break, but I should definitely be at home on Christmas Day; we can open presents before I leave, or you can owl them to me." She took a deep breath and looked at them both, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. "I'm just going to miss spending Christmas with you guys so much--"   
  


She sniffled, wiping ineffectually at her eyes. Ron was hunched over in his chair, eyes fixed on his clasped hands. Silently, Harry offered Hermione a handkerchief.   
  


"I'm Ok--I've just been busy with a lot of stuff." Her voice had calmed down somewhat, and she smiled at them. "I think I'm going to go to the library. I really don't have enough information on this essay..."   
  


They watched silently as she gathered her books and hurried out the Portrait Hole, and Harry had to drop his eyes, feeling something squirm in his stomach. The secrets he and Ron had been keeping from Hermione only kept multiplying in number and weight, exhausting all of them. Trying to hide information about...everything...was damned near impossible, considering Hermione's legendary tenacity and determination. Thankfully, his and Ron's relationship had provided substantial amounts of cover.   
  


The cushion next to him sank under the new weight, and Harry didn't stir as Ron whispered in his ear.   
  


"Did she ask you about Sirius?"   
  


Hermione *had* asked about Sirius, incensed and frantic after the article had appeared during breakfast on the front page of the Daily Prophet. He had finally convinced her, after an emotionally exhausting argument, not to go to Dumbeldore; telling her that Sirius was fine, that he had talked with him, that whatever it was was Order Business that they should not interfere in.   
  


He was almost positive she believed him.   
  


The noise in the Common Room dropped, and Harry caught a few skittering glances directed at the two of them, seated next to each other on the couch.   
  


"C'mon, Ron. Let's go upstairs."   
  


Eyes clouded, Ron nodded, heaving himself up from the couch and leading the way up the stone stairs. Harry followed silently, ignoring the stares as best he could.   
  


When the door to the Sixth year Gryffindor boys room was firmly shut behind them, Ron turned to him, worry dark in his eyes.   
  


"What if I can't conjure a Patronus? What are we going to do?"   
  


"You *will* conjure a Patronus. I know you will. You just need more practice."   
  


The red-headed boy snorted, fingers massaging what Harry knew to be a bruise on his shoulder.   
  


"Merlin, I hope not. I don't know how many more practice sessions I can take; by the time I finally can do it right, I'll have fallen down so many times my Patronus will be a great big bruise..."   
  


The memory of a dream flashed in front of Harry's eyes; there and gone; a blinding flash of white light, illuminating the dark trees of the Forbidden Forest.   
  


Harry shook his head.   
  


"What about you?"   
  


"Huh?"   
  


The red-haired boy folded his arms across his chest and stared down at him, looking eerily like Molly Weasley.   
  


"You need to practice too."   
  


"We have to wait for Dobby--"   
  


"Yes, I know, we have to wait for Dobby. But when he brings us the wand, you have to practice. We agreed."   
  


Biting his tongue, Harry turned away from the other boy's gaze, crossing the room to stare out the window at the Hogwarts grounds, cold and still under the night.   
  


"Yeah. I know."   
  
  
  


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THE DAILY PROPHET   
  


page 1   
  


BLACK SPOTTED AGAIN: MINISTRY DEPLOYS DEMENTORS TO FORBIDDEN FOREST.   
  


The Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, has deployed Dementors to the Forbidden Forest, over the protests of Hogwarts School Headmaster Albus Dumbeldore. The Forbidden Forest, which lies on the outskirts of Hogwarts territory, has been the location of numerous sightings of the feared murderer-escapee Sirius Black in the past week.   
  


The slaughter Sirius Black created in both the Wizard and Muggle worlds is still legend for its brutality. Ten sightings over the past week have pushed fear to a fever pitch in the Wizarding community. Despite these concerns, and the fact that Black twice managed to invade Hogwarts when he first escaped Azkhaban prison three years ago, Albus Dumbeldore has bluntly refused stationing of Dementor's around Hogwarts property.   
  


"In the instance of safety for both Hogwarts Students and the entire wizarding community, the Ministry believes that this is the appropriate course of action," Minister Fudge stated yesterday. 

(Story continued on page 3.)   
  
  
  
  
  


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Short chapter, I know. S'ok; the next one won't be; it has a lot of stuff going on--and I mean that. Next chapter should be the slashiest. Enjoy! Eat, Drink, and Review!   
  


~Jadea~ 


	17. Mates

  
  


Author: Jadea   
  


Summary: (Takes a deep breath). I won't spoil it for you. Harry and Ron get ready. Is that ambiguous enough for you?   
  


Disclaimer: So sorry, not mine. One guy in my life at a time, thank you.   
  


Rating: R.   
  


Warning: This story has been slash from day one, but this chapter is by far the most intense. (Coughs). So, if you don't like that ... well, quite frankly, you're kinda reading the wrong story. If you like the story but not the slash ... skim.   
  


Dedication: Shinobu, whom I told about this chapter a couple months ago. It's finally here! (Don't roll your eyes).   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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There was such trust in his blue eyes.   
  


Such complete and utter trust.   
  


Harry closed his own eyes, running his fingers through his damp black hair. He did not want to do this. He did not want do this. He did not want to do this.   
  


But...he had to.   
  


Forcing his hand to steady, Harry brought up the wand with a swift slash, pointing the mahogany tip steadily at his best friend.   
  


"Imperio."   
  


Ron didn't move, didn't even blink, but Harry shuddered, recoiling away from the wand in his hand. He *hated* this wand. It had almost killed him. Would have killed him, except Ron had saved him.   
  


This had been his idea, but it was Ron who had nagged at him, forced him to realize that he could not simply cast an Unforgivable curse when the time came and hope it would work. An Unforgivable, like any other spell, perhaps *more* than any other spell, required practice.   
  


Practice on a human being.   
  


//I have to make him do something he wouldn't normally do.//   
  


Harry blinked, feeling beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. It was damn cold in the bowels of the school, but he only felt feverish and tired.   
  


And filthy.   
  


Dobby had brought them the wand, just like they'd asked. Exchanging it for one of Fred and George's trick wands while Malfoy slept. Neither Harry nor Ron wanted the ghost of an Unforgivable on their own wands.   
  


Three feet away from him, dressed in his oldest, softest school robes and a pair of too-small, orange pajamas, sat Ron, blue eyes wide and open and utterly vacant. Harry swallowed, aware that he was desperately thirsty.   
  


//I have to make him do something he wouldn't normally do.//   
  


But his mind only stayed despairingly blank, silent except for the litany that kept repeating through it.   
  


//I don't want to do this, I don't want to do this, I don't want to do this...//   
  


He had to. He *had* to. Setting everything up was useless unless Malfoy followed them to the Forbidden Forest. And there was only one way to guarantee that.   
  


//Fuck.//   
  


And the most frustrating, gut wrenching aspect of the whole thing was how *calm* Ron was about it. The whole idea of the thing had been ripping up Harry's insides ever since Ron had forced him to realize what exactly practicing the 'Imperio' would mean. The red-head, however, had been *fine*. Far calmer than Harry would have been, had their positions been reversed, or if he had experienced what Ron had...   
  


//I trust you.// Said through that endearing side-faced grin, while Ron's hands slid into his hair. //Just don't make me sing some Weird Sisters song; you know I hate their stuff. And remember; I don't dance.//   
  


Dance. Yeah, right. Harry had never felt less like dancing in his life.   
  


//I have to make him do something he wouldn't normally do.//   
  


"Ron."   
  


"Yeah?"   
  


Ron blinked, shaking his head slightly and gazing up at Harry. If not for the utter lack of impatience in his voice at Harry's delay, the Boy Who Lived would have sworn that nothing was different.   
  


"Tell me...tell me that you hate the Chudley Cannons."   
  


Normally the line would have brought a distinct scowl, or a rather obscene non-verbal reply. But Ron simply grinned at him, scratching his ear, looking for all the world like a ten-year old up past his bedtime.   
  


"I hate the Chudley Cannons."   
  


Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Harry wracked his tired brain, fighting back the urge to quit.   
  


"Take off your left trainer."   
  


Long fingers tugging at the laces, Ron loosened the strings and then nudged the shoe off with his other foot. It was such a basic, every-day gesture, one that he had seen Ron do a thousand and one times, but it left Harry feeling foul.   
  


The control was total. He could feel it, in the magic surrounding the two of them. Anything he wanted, anything he asked, anything at all...and Ron would do it, if he could.   
  


"Now put it back on."   
  


He cleared his throat, praying Dobby would return soon to take the wand back before it could be missed. If Malfoy discovered now that he had been tricked, and his wand replaced...   
  


But Harry didn't want to think about that.   
  


"Finite Incantum."   
  


Ron's fingers paused in the process of tying up his left shoe, falling away from the laces as he other boy looked up at Harry, red hair falling into his eyes. Harry just looked back at him, breath hitching in his chest, fingers numb, not even noticing when Malfoy's wand slipped from his fingers and struck the floor.   
  


"I'm sorry..."   
  


Ron was on his feet in seconds, pulling Harry close, warm lips moving across his neck and face. Struggling to control his breathing Harry tugged him closer, clutching fistfuls of Ron's robes. Soft, worn material whispered through Harry's familiar fingers.   
  


"You made me dance, didn't you?"   
  


The laugh that came out muffled against Ron's shoulder sounded more like a scream, but it didn't matter; Ron only hugged him tighter.   
  
  
  
  
  


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"And don't just sit around and refuse to crack open a book *all* break, like I know you will, just because I'm not there -- if I get back and find you haven't studied at all, I won't help you with your Potions -- stop smirking, Ron!"   
  


He gave her a completely innocent look that he knew didn't fool her for a second, noticing that Harry was biting back a grin of his own. Hermione had been haranguing both of them about their homework for the last two days; five minutes away from her departure, she was worse than Ron had ever seen her. There were times when she talked about homework that Ron wondered how she breathed.   
  


"Brrrr." Hermione shivered, clapping her mittened hands together. The Hogwarts train platform was largely deserted; it was simply too cold to linger outside and almost all the students had bundled aboard the train, jostling for seats and dodging falling luggage.   
  


He knew Ginny was on there, probably sitting with Colin Creevy and Neville and some other Gryffindors, sharing pumpkin pasties and chocolate frogs, and all he felt was a resigned sadness. Even if he and Harry hadn't had other plans for break, he wouldn't have wanted to go back to the Burrow with her. So he stamped his feet and rubbed his hands and refused to think about how nice it would be to be home; to drink hot chocolate and sit by the fire and play chess with Dad or Bill, to sleep in his own bed and have his Mum kiss him goodnight...   
  


Frustrated with himself, he shoved his hands in his pockets, half-listening as Hermione said goodbye to Harry. He didn't know yet if Mum and Dad knew about him and Harry. Hogwarts gossip was Hogwarts gossip, and despite Harry's fame, he doubted it was in any of the newspapers his Mum read yet. God, he hoped not. He didn't even *want* to think of his Mum reading some of those other papers. Yuuuuuckkk.   
  


Of course, it was all a moot point if Ginny decided to have a girly mother-daughter moment and spill her guts to Molly. And if that happened...well, there wasn't much he could do about that, was there?   
  


Ron shook his head, driving the thoughts away as best he could. That was something to worry about later, after...everything else had been taken care of.   
  


There were plenty of other, more important things for him to worry about.   
  


Such as the fact that he had yet to produce a Patronus.   
  


"I have to go."   
  


There was a flurry of movement as Hermione hugged them; first Harry and then him, wrapping her arms around his neck so tight he lifted her off the ground.   
  


"Happy Christmas." She smiled and kissed him swiftly on the cheek before turning and darting up the steps of the train car, pushing back her scarf and waving as the Hogwarts Express pulled out, its scarlet steam engine blindingly bright against the browns and greys of a Scottish winter.   
  


Next to him, Harry lifted his hand to shield his eyes and watched until the train disappeared around the bend.   
  


"Do you want to go into Hogsmeade?"   
  


He nodded, following Harry's trainers across the platform and down the stairs. Silently cursing the cold, he shivered, vainly trying to get warm in his old jacket.   
  


Three practices and Merlin knew how many hours had changed nothing; Ron still could not produce a Patronus, or even the beginnings of one. No matter how many happy thoughts he remembered, or imagined; no matter how encouraging Harry was or how bruised his back became, nothing worked. Abso-fuckin-lutely nothing.   
  


Winning the House Cup First Year hadn't worked. Neither had seeing Ginny alive Second Year, although whether that was because the memory wasn't strong enough, or becaue of the current tension between them, he didn't know. Not even the memory of their Fourth year, being chosen as Harry's most precious thing in the Tri-Wizard Tournament, a fact which used to make him blush and stutter, worked.   
  


Because every good memory, every happy thought strong and warm enough to produce a Patronus, had Harry in it. And every cold, paralyzing thought sent by the Dementor-spell took Harry away.   
  


Harry dying, in front of his eyes, choking on his own breath. Malfoy's voice, colder than Harry's skin. His hands. His mouth--   
  


"Fuck."   
  


He swerved, kicking a stone as hard as he could into the street. Walking next to him, Harry glanced at him but said nothing, eyes inscrutable behind his glasses.   
  


Both of them knew the reason Ron couldn't conjure a Patronus.   
  


But neither of them talked about it.   
  


They hadn't been talking about a lot of things, actually.   
  


He sighed, sneaking a glance at the black-haired boy walking next to him. Harry continued to walk steadily, eyes open but far away, somewhere Ron couldn't follow.   
  


Or didn't want to.   
  


Sex, for example. That was something they hadn't really talked about ever since he'd dragged Harry into the class room and told him that he was ready. Hermione, although something told Ron that that was getting better. Ginny. Sirius. Dementors. Wands. The Imperius...   
  


Fuck, he didn't even know what Harry wanted for Christmas.   
  


The utter absurdity of that statement shocked him, and he snorted laughter, stopping beside the street that led into Hogsmeade. Harry stopped too, giving him an inquisitive look that only made him laugh harder, leaning against the cold stone building.   
  


"Uhh, Ron...something you want to share..?"   
  


He nodded, still laughing, collapsing against the wall and covering his face with both hands.   
  


"Yeah. Yeah, there is...whatta you want for Christmas, Harry?"   
  


Harry stared at him, disbelieving.   
  


"We haven't really been able to discuss it, 'cause we've been so busy -- exams, fights, plotting to kill Draco Malfoy; you know, all that normal stuff -- "   
  


Green eyes widened alarmingly, and Ron caught the unspoken warning. There were some things they weren't supposed to discuss in public, after all.   
  


Or in private, for that matter.   
  


Laughter tapering off, Ron frowned, flexing his hands. Even through the wool gloves, his fingers felt numb. His Mum had knit them, but they were a couple years old now and badly stretched. At least they didn't have dark maroon 'R's on them.   
  


Then Harry seized both his hands, rubbing them briskly between his own fingers, the friction of the wool against their skin rough and warm. Stepping closer, Harry guided Ron's hands inside his jacket, pressing them against his chest. Fingers tingling, Ron closed his eyes, feeling the steady beat of Harry's heart under his hands.   
  


He shivered, feeling the wind creep across his neck and ruffle his hair, feeling the warmth of Harry's skin and the steady thud of his heart against Ron's palm.   
  


"Ron..."   
  


Groaning in reply, he dropped his head onto Harry's shoulder, caught between the stinging wind and the heat of Harry's hands sliding over his back. Torn between the sensations of heat and cold that were sending goose bumps racing up and down his skin, raising the hair on the back of his neck and making him gasp.   
  


"You are so warm -- "   
  


Harry cut himself off with a shake of the head, tangling one hand in Ron's hair to tug his head down and kiss him softly, his warm lips ghosting over Ron's cold mouth. Recognizing the query behind the tentative kisses, Ron opened his mouth in invitation and Harry surged against him, pressing them both against the wall. He could feel Harry's lashes brushing the side of his nose, the heat from his mouth, the touch of his hips. Refusing to release their contact with Harry, his own hands slid down the other boy's chest, around his waist...and into the back pockets of his jeans.   
  


Eyes closed, he smirked at Harry's response, half-muffled by Ron's own mouth -- and failed utterly to stifle a low cry of his own as Harry's hands, in one smooth movement, slid into the the back pockets of *his* jeans, moving their hips together at the same time. Harry's mouth slipped dowarwards on his neck ... and Ron shuddered violently, feeling the cold air like ice on his skin where Harry's mouth had been, warm and wet.   
  


Breathing harshly, Harry pulled his mouth away, a familiar look of concern flickering through his eyes.   
  


"Are you ok? Do you want to stop?"   
  


Dizzy and not quite sure which question he was answering, Ron could only shake his head. Leaning heavily against the wall behind him for support, he closed his eyes, trying to get his breathing under control, feeling hot and cold and excited and tired all at the same time.   
  


"You know, Harry -- you never did tell me what you wanted for Christmas."   
  


Green eyes open and utterly unguarded, Harry slid one hand up Ron's neck to toy gently with his hair.   
  


"I thought I just did," he whispered.   
  
  
  
  
  


_____________________________________________   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Nerves wound tight with excitement, his normally sure hands fumbled stupidly with the key. Every sense seemed more acute, hyper aware to sensation. Behind him, he could hear the sound of Ron's breath and the creak of the floorboards as the other boy shuffled his feet.   
  


After an eternity, he heard the key click and the door swung open under Harry's push. Biting his lip, Harry walked into the room, keenly aware of Ron's footsteps following him into the room.   
  


"So..."   
  


He nodded, eyes flicking up and down the small room, taking everything in, looking at everything except Ron.   
  


A fire snapped briskly in the stone fireplace, adding warmth and heat to the small room under the eaves of the house. A small, wood framed mirror hung above a matching dresser. On the wall next to it was the rooms only window.   
  


Shivering despite the warmth of the room, Harry walked over to the window, peering out through the narrow glass. A light drizzle was falling from the slate gray sky, and he could feel fingers of cold seeping inside underneath the window frame. Without thinking, he placed his gloved hand against the window and pulled it away, watching the ghostly imprint of his hand on the glass.   
  


The fire snapped and he turned around, eyes instantly going to the largest object in the room; a double bed, buried in quilts and goose-down pillows. Near the door, Ron stood with his hands in his pockets, peering at a picture on the wall.   
  


"Hey, Harry, c'mere...look at this--"   
  


Wondering wildly if Ron was as relaxed as he sounded, Harry stood next to the other boy, brushing a hand nervously through his hair. Impatience, nervousness, desire, anticipation...a thousand different feelings coursed through him, making his stomach knot and his eyes blink. Leaning forward, Harry looked at the picture that had captured Ron's attention.   
  


It was an old wizarding photograph, black and white, of Hogsmeade. Unlike muggle photographs, the black had not faded into rusty-brown; the colors were as crisp and clear as if they'd been taken the day before.   
  


Picture-People thronged through the streets of Hogsmeade, dancing and singing; fireworks crackled and banners and streamers rained through the air. Despite the jubilation evident in the photograph, Harry couldn't help but notice the other things -- the run-down shops and houses, the broken windows and gutted remains of various homes and stores. An old man leaned heavily on his cane, a young couple kissed with abandon, a wizard Harry instantly identified as a soldier stood in the middle of the picture, arms lifted towards the sky.   
  


Gently, with great care, Ron's index finger slid down the glass covering the picture, resting on the bottom of the frame, lingering on the caption carved there.   
  


~Hogsmeade, 1945~   
  


"Grindlewalds defeat." Ron's voice was hushed. "After Dumbeldore took him down. The Wizarding World went crazy; Grandad used to tell me about it. They'd been living on rations for years, their house was destroyed, three of his brothers died, one in a Muggle battle. He was at the Front when the news came..."   
  


Ron trailed off, hands falling away from the picture. He turned away from Harry, scrubbing his hands harshly across his face before sitting at the foot of the bed, sinking down into the mattress.   
  


Torn, Harry took a step towards him and then paused, fingers clenching and unclenching restlessly at his sides. Outside, he could hear the wind whistling and howling around the eaves of the house, and knew that if he stepped outside it would slap him, a stinging wet wind in from the north.   
  


The heat from the fire warmed the robes at his back, glinting on the strands of Ron's hair as he lay back on the bed, watching Harry with solemn blue eyes.   
  


Working with rough, choppy movements, Harry shrugged his coat off, laying it on the chair nearest the fireplace. His fingers fumbled clumsily with the laces of his shoes, then with his socks. It was an utterly graceless performance, and Harry couldn't fight back the flush on his face, keenly aware of Ron's eyes watching his every move.   
  


Shivering slightly, clad in only his boxers, Harry closed his eyes, listening to the wind outside and the sound of Ron's breath, now harsh and irregular, inside.   
  


Trying desperately not to trip over his own feet, Harry climbed on the bed, crawling up it on his hands and knees until his eyes were on level with Ron's wide, impossibly blue ones.   
  


Then Ron's hands were on his shoulders, pulling at him, tugging him down, and Harry could feel Ron's heart beating wildly where their chests pressed together. His best friend's mouth was warm, wonderfully warm...   
  


Harry broke the kiss off, gasping for air, heart thudding in his chest. Ron shifted under him, tugging roughly at the collar of his own robes.   
  


"These things are gonna fucking strangle me...Umm...Harry?"   
  


Blinking away the hair that had fallen into his eyes, he rocked back on his heels, watching Ron untangle himself from his coat, robes and shirt before wadding them up and hurling them on the floor beside the bed.   
  


Smiling wickedly, Harry pressed his hands against Ron's hips, feeling him jump as he ran his hands down the length of the other boy's legs, the friction rasping against the rough fabric of his jeans. Fingers moving with far more dexterity than they had when he had untied his own shoes, Harry unlaced Ron's trainers and tossed them both on the floor.   
  


"You're still wearing your gloves."   
  


Surprised, Harry glanced down and realized that he was indeed wearing dark wool gloves on both his hands. Shaking his head, he started to pull them off before Ron sat up and grabbed his hand, their fingers entwining instinctively.   
  


"No. Leave them on."   
  


He groaned, cupping Ron's face with his free hand, a familiar feeling roiling in his stomach. The restraint he had been battling with ever since they had paused outside the entrance to Hogsmeade was slipping away, rapidly losing ground to the sensations and wants flooding his whole body...   
  


"But I want to touch you."   
  


Ron's mouth was on his ear, his cheek pressed against Harry's neck, and he could feel the flush on the other boys face as he whispered the words almost too low to hear.   
  


"Take one off, then. But leave the other one on."   
  


Face buried in Ron's hair, Harry folded his best friend in his arms, tugging off the right glove and tossing it on the pile on the floor. Ron shifted on his lap, rocking their hips together in a move that brought Harry's head back and his gloved hand sweeping up Ron's bare back in one stroke.   
  


Somewhere in the background, he could hear the sound of sleet hitting the window, striking the glass. And the hiss and spit of sparks as the fire burned.   
  


Groaning, both of his hands slid up and down the skin of Ron's back, right hand warm against Ron's bare skin, left hand slipping underneath the waistband of Ron's jeans, gloved fingers fumbling with the zipper.   
  


"Do you...?"   
  


"Y-Yeah. Just let me..."   
  


"There--"   
  


More clothes tumbled onto the floor, and the only fabric separating them was the scratchy wool glove on Harry's left hand.   
  


Tangling their bare legs together, Ron pulled them both down onto the bed, sliding his own hands up Harry's sides, eyes solemn as his fingers gently traced the lines of Harry's ribs.   
  


"You're too skinny. You don't eat enough."   
  


Harry shook his head, the words cutting through the warm haze that had fogged his thoughts. The words stung a bit, even though he knew the very real concern behind them.   
  


"You know, Ron, this is a hell of a time for you to tell me you think I'm unattractive."   
  


Ron flushed even darker, then spluttered. "That's not what I meant, you prat. You haven't been eating much recently; I just didn't realize how bad it was 'till now..."   
  


The red-head trailed off, looking mortified. Rolling his eyes, he let his head fall back hard against the mattress, muttering under his breath, "of all the dumbass ways to kill the mood..."   
  


Feeling Ron shift uneasily underneath him, Harry leaned forward, resting his own hands lightly on the other boy's chest, feeling the steady heartbeat through the warm skin. "You know, you're not exactly packing on the pounds either, mate. Maybe we should hold off until we've both gained about a stone* or two--"   
  


Catching the teasing tone in his voice, Ron gave him a lop-sided grin, irreverant humor flashing in his eyes, and something caught in Harry's throat at the sight.   
  


"A stone or two, eh? You sure you're not using me to vicariously act out your erotic fantasies about that fat muggle cousin of yours, Dudley?"   
  


Harry shuddered dramatically, fiercely ordering his mind *not* to continue that train of thought, no matter what.   
  


"Ummm...ewwww! That way madness lies. No, you sick little twit, Dudley was the furthest thing from my mind until *you* brought him up. I'll have you know that if I'm unable to do anything, it'll be entirely your fault."   
  


He shuddered again. Refusing to look at Ron's amused smirk, Harry instead watched his own fingers as they slipped down, skimming over the muscles and planes of the other boy's chest. A few bruises darkened Ron's skin, scattered among the freckles on his chest and arms. Marks from Quidditch and Patronus practices, no doubt. Green eyes locked on blue, Harry's hands traveled over the softer skin of Ron's stomach, nudging his index finger into the other boy's belly button. Ron reacted hard, arching his body against Harrys' and forcing a rough cry from the black-haired boy's throat.   
  


Feeling dizzy and half-drunk, Harry slid one hand down the other boy's hip, smiling when he heard the soft groan, goose bumps racing across his skin as Ron's breath stirred the hairs on his neck. He blinked, a jolt of ... something ... washing through him at the sight of his dark wool glove against the pale skin of Ron's hip, the contrast of bright red hair against the stark white of the pillow.   
  


"I've never done this before, you know."   
  


Dazed, Harry brushed his damp, dark hair out of his eyes. Propped up on his elbows, Ron lay under him, blue eyes dark in his boyish face.   
  


"Done what?"   
  


His voice was so rough he barely even recognized it. He could feel every spot where Ron's body touched his, hard and wet and slick, and he needed...he needed...   
  


"Made love."   
  


//Ron. He needed Ron.//   
  


Hot air burned in his lungs; he couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe at all ... and it was exquisite. Slipping one arm around the other boy's waist, he lowered his head, his lips meeting Ron's warm mouth firmly. Bracing himself with one hand, Harry moved, rocking their bodies against each other and spurring a shocked cry from the boy beneath him. Clutching the blanket fiercely in his fist, Harry moved again, swallowing Ron's gasps, breathing them in.   
  


Panting, Harry broke the kiss, feeling the rapid gusts of Ron's breath on his lips, feeling the sweat on his skin where their foreheads touched. Muscles trembling, his eyes slipped shut, heart drumming in his ears.   
  


"Yeah. I've never -- I've never made love before with anyone. Before."   
  


Then Ron's arms had slipped around his shoulders, and his own hands were moving lower, driving desperate noises from his lover. And for a time, nothing else existed.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

The wind had died down by the time they started back to Hogwarts, even though it was nearly dark, and they walked in silence except for the crunch of their shoes on the frozen ground.   
  


Hands stuffed in his pockets, Ron walked beside Harry, for once not intimidated by the silence between them. Ahead in the distance, he could see the lights of Hogwarts, gleaming like a mirage. He was tired, and hungry, and damned if he wasn't sore in a few places ... but he felt brilliant.   
  


"There should be some Dementors up ahead, on the outskirts of the Forest." Harry's voice jarred him, shaking him from his thoughts. Stopping, he looked around, peering warily through the tangled branches of the trees.   
  


Nothing.   
  


No foul, insipid memories; no Harry dying and gasping for breath. No unwanted touches on his skin....   
  


His eyes widened, and he fumbled around in his jeans pocket, fingers searching excitedly for his wand. It was probably a stupid, stupid idea, but it didn't feel like it, it felt right --   
  


"Harry, go ahead. Do it. Do the Dementor-replica spell. Now. I want to see what I can do."   
  


He watched impatiently as Harry struggled to keep his mouth shut. The dusk was deepening, but the other boy's eyes still gleamed, even in the dim light.   
  


"Ron, I don't know --"   
  


He shook his head fiercely, cutting Harry off.   
  


"C'mon, just try it. I need to do this. Now."   
  


Sighing, Harry shook his head, exasperated, tugging his own wand out with a bit more force than was necessary.   
  


"The ground isn't exactly soft here, Ron. I hope I catch you in time -- "   
  


Ron ignored him, focused entirely on Harry's wand. This had to work. He could do this. He *could*. Ignoring the cold, Ron licked his lips.   
  


Harry whispered the spell, and suddenly the temperature, already cold, had plummeted way below freezing. He could hear, in the darkest recesses of his mind, the sound of choked breathing. But before he could feel harsh hands seize his shoulders, he concentrated on another, better memory and brought his own wand up in a fast sweep.   
  


"Expecto Patronum!"   
  


The end of his wand seemed to explode with light; a loud, shattering 'boom' shook the trees around them. His Patronus flew through the air at an incredible speed, whistling across the path before curving back towards them like a boomerang.   
  


"Oh, shit! Ron, get down!"   
  


Transfixed by the bright bolt of silvery light shooting like a star, Ron hardly even fought back as Harry seized his shoulders, dragging him down to the ground. Ducking his head under the other boy's hands, Ron turned to watch the light streak above their heads before disappearing into the forest.   
  


"Wow."   
  


Tugging his hands out of Harry's grip he rubbed at his eyes, still seeing the after-image on the lids like a bolt of lightening. Grinning, he untangled himself from Harry, who was still on the ground, and jumped up, pumping his fist in the air and laughing.   
  


"Did you see that? Did you! I *did* it! I knew it. A Patronus! I finally fucking did it! I don't know what in the hell it was, but it doesn't matter; I DID IT! I REALLY FUCKING DID IT!"   
  


He grinned, raising his arms to the sky.   
  


"I knew it. You didn't have to catch me; I just wish I knew -- "   
  


He broke off, glancing down at the ground where Harry still sat. Or rather knelt, pounding the frozen ground with his fist. And was either choking to death, or laughing his head off.   
  


"Ummm...Harry?"   
  


His entire body shaking with laughter, Harry just shook his dark head at Ron, hands wiping at his eyes.   
  


Feeling more than a little irritated, Ron simply stood there, impatiently tapping his wand against his leg, glaring half-heartedly at his best friend until he finally managed to struggle to his feet. Harry staggered, still laughing, and Ron reached out, grabbing his elbow to steady him.   
  


"Are you planning on filling me in on the joke, Harry?"   
  


Still sniggering, the other boy nodded, tugging his glasses off and cleaning them haphazardly with his sleeve.   
  


"You honestly -- you don't know what your 'Patronus' is, Ron?"   
  


Brow furrowing, he only looked at Harry. "I don't know what it is. Its just a big circle of light, or something. It didn't look like anything but a big, bright ball of light--"   
  


Harry's hands tightened on Ron's shoulders as he began to shake with laughter again, gasping the words out between chortles:   
  


"It wasn't just 'any' big, bright ball of light, Ron. It had the word "Chudley" written on the side."   
  


"So?"   
  


Green eyes dancing, Harry leaned forward until their foreheads touched and Ron could feel the breath of Harry's words on his lips.   
  


"It means -- it means that your Patronus is a "cannon," Ron. Or, to be more specific, a 'Chudley' Cannon."   
  


Arms tightening around Harry, he shrugged, watching the first stars start to appear in the dark sky above them.   
  


"Ok, fine. But I don't think it's *that* funny, mate."   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*********************************************************   
  
  
  


* Ok, definition time. "Stone" is an older English term for a unit of measuring weight. It's not a measurement used practically these days, its more of a slang term, according to my professor. I confess, I don't know exactly how many pounds a "stone" equals. It could be two pounds or two hundred pounds, I don't remember; I just wanted to use that word. Or, I could be completely wrong, that definition of "stone" does not exist, and my British professor was just pulling my leg, getting back at me for when I laughed when he said how many "stones" he weighed. Either way.   
  


Anyway...   
  


(Snickers) I gotta admit; I love the idea of Ron's Patronus being a Chudley Cannon. So far as I know, no one's ever done it before, either. If anyone has...well, I swear I didn't rip you off, and kudos to you for thinking of it! 'Phoenix' gives us Hermione's Patronus, but not Ron's, and I was just wondering one day what Ron's would be ... and it came to me.   
  


Anyway, this chapter was quite difficult to write, for various reasons *coughsexscenecough* so I would greatly appreciate any constructive criticism you have to offer. Thanks. 


End file.
